{»  «>  *>  ^  •>*  ^*  *r«  *;*«:•*>•:•  .<*..•»  <?._•• 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  GARY 


WITH  A  MEMORIAL  OF  THEIR  LIVES 


BY 


MARY    CLEMMER 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND    COMPANY 


1880 


•  :  :  v, 

1  .-, 


COPYRIGHT,  1876, 

BY  KURD  AND   HOUGHTON. 


THE   RIVERSIDE   PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE'. 

BLECTROTYPED     AND     PRINTED     BY 

H.   O.    HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


THE  poems  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary  were  published  in  a  joint  volume 
during  the  life-time  of  the  sisters  ;  the  first  venture  was  made  in  this  way 
in  1849,  and  the  large  public  interested  in  their  songs  has  ever  since  in 
stinctively  connected  writers,  who,  bound  together  by  peculiar  ties,  were  as 
akin  and  as  divergent  in  their  poetry  as  they  were  in  their  natures.  Subse 
quently  to  the  first  venture,  they  issued  their  volumes  of  poetry  separately, 
but  after  their  death,  the  editor  of  their  writings,  Mrs.  Mary  Clemmer,  again 
associated  them.  Her  Memorial  contained  their  later  poems  ;  this  vol 
ume  was  followed  by  the  "  Last  Poems  of  Alice  and  Phcebe  Gary,"  and 
finally  by  "  Ballads  for  Little  Folk,"  again  a  joint  collection. 

The  poems,  scattered  thus  through  several  volumes,  are  now  brought 
together  into  a  single  volume,  each  writer  having  her  own  portion.  To 
facilitate  comparison  and  reference,  it  has  been  thought  desirable  to  clas 
sify  the  poems  upon  a  common  plan  which  agrees  substantially  with  that 
adopted  by  Mrs.  Glemmer.  The  Memorial  prepared  by  Mrs.  Clemmer 
introduces  the  volume,  and  we  add  here  the  preface  to  the  original  edi 
tion. 


When  at  the  request  of  the  brothers  of  Alice  and  Phcebe  Gary,  I  sat 
down  to  write  a  Memorial  of  their  lives,  and  looking  through  the  entire 
mass  of  their  papers,  found  not  a  single  word  of  their  own  referring  in  any 
personal  way  to  themselves,  every  impulse  of  my  heart  impelled  me  to  re 
linquish  the  task.  To  tell  the  story  of  any  human  life,  even  in  its  outward 
incidents,  wisely  and  justly,  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  do.  But  to  attempt  a 
fit  memorial  of  two  women  whose  lives  must  be  chiefly  interpreted  by  in 
ward  rather  than  outward  events,  and  solely  from  personal  knowledge  and 
remembrance,  was  a  responsibility  that  I  was  unwilling  to  assume.  With 
the  utter  absence  of  any  data  of  their  own,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  lives 
of  the  Gary  sisters  could  only  be  produced  from  the  combined  reminis 
cences  of  all  their  more  intimate  personal  friends.  Months  were  con 
sumed  in  writing  to,  and  in  waiting  for  replies  from,  long-time  friends  of 
the  sisters.  All  were  willing,  but  alas  !  they  "  had  destroyed  all  letters," 
had  forgotten  "  lots  and  lots  of  things  that  would  have  been  interesting ;  " 
they  were  preoccupied,  or  sick  ;  and,  after  months  of  waiting,  I  sat  where 
I  began,  with  the  mass  of  Alice's  and  Phoebe's  unedited  papers  before 
me,  and  not  an  added  line  for  their  lives,  with  a  new  request  from  their 
legatees  and  executors  that  I  should  go  on  with  the  Memorial. 


IV  PREFACE. 

Here  it  is. 

It  has  cost  me  more  than  labor.  Every  day  I  have  buried  my  friends 
anew.  Every  line  wrung  from  memory  has  deepened  the  wound  of  irrep 
arable  loss. 

From  beginning  to  end  my  one  purpose  has  been,  not  to  write  a  eulogy, 
but  to  write  justly.  In  depicting  their  birthplace  and  early  life  in  Ohio,  I 
have  quoted  copiously  from  Phoebe's  sketch  of  Alice,  and  Ada  Carnahan's 
sketch  of  her  Aunt  Phcebe,  both  published  in  the  (Boston)  "  Ladies'  Re 
pository,"  believing  that  that  which  pertained  exclusively  to  their  early 
family  life  could  be  more  faithfully  told  by  members  of  the  family  than  by 
any  one  born  outside  of  it.  Save  where  full  credit  is  given  to  others,  I, 
alone,  am  responsible  for  the  statements  of  this  Memorial.  Not  a  line  in 
it  has  been  recorded  from  "  hearsay."  Not  a  fact  is  given  that  I  do  not 
know  to  be  true,  either  from  my  own  personal  knowledge,  or  from  the  lips 
of  the  women  whose  lives  and  characters  it  helps  to  represent.  I  make 
this  statement  as  facts  embodied  by  me  before,  in  a  newspaper  article,  have 
been  publicly  questioned.  One  writer  went  so  far  as  to  say  in  a  public  jour 
nal,  that  "  As  she  would  not  willingly  misrepresent  her,  Mrs.  Clemmer  must 
have  misunderstood  Alice  Gary."  I  never  misunderstood  Alice  Gary.  She 
never  uttered  a  word  to  me  that  I  did  not  perfectly  understand.  I  have 
never  recorded  a  word  of  her  that  I  did  not  know  to  be  true;  nor  with  any 
purpose  but  to  do  absolute  justice  to  my  dearest  friend.  This  is  a  full 
and  final  reply  to  any  query  or  doubt  which  this  Memorial  may  suggest  or 
call  forth.  All  who  read  have  a  perfect  right  to  criticise  and  to  question ; 
but  I  shall  not  feel  any  obligation  to  make  further  reply.  Life  is  too  short 
and  too  precious  to  spend  it  in  privately  answering  persons  who  "  wish  to 
be  assured  that  the  Gary  sisters  were  not  Universalists,"  or  who  cultivate 
original  theories  concerning  their  character  or  life. 

The  poems  following  the  Memorial  have,  with  but  three  or  four  excep 
tions,  never  before  been  gathered  within  the  covers  of  a  book.  The  excep 
tions  are  Alice's  "  The  Sure  Witness,"  "  One  Dust,"  and  "  My  Greed,"  all 
published  before  in  the  volume  of  her  poems  brought  out  by  Kurd  and 
Houghton  in  1865,  and  reproduced  here  as  special  illustrations  of  her 
character,  faith,  and  death. 

In  parting  with  a  portion  of  the  treasures  and  "pictures  of  memory,"  it 
has  been  difficult  sometimes  to  decide  which  to  give  and  which  to  retain. 
Many,  too  precious  for  any  printed  page,  were  nevertheless  such  a  part  of 
the  true  souls  from  whom  they  emanated,  that  to  withhold  them  seemed 
like  defrauding  the  living  for  the  sake  of  the  dead.  Thus  some  incidents 
are  given  solely  because  they  are  necessary  to  the  perfect  portrayal  of  the 
nature  which  they  concern.  No  fact  has  been  told  which  has  not  this  sig 
nificance.  No  line  has  been  written  for  the  sake  of  writing  it.  But  as  I 
cease,  I  feel  more  keenly  even  than  when  I  began,  how  inadequate  is  any 
one  hand,  however  conscientious,  to  trace  two  lives  so  delicately  and  vari 
ously  tinted,  to  portray  two  souls  so  finely  veined  with  a  many-shaded  deep 
humanity. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


A   MEMORIAL   OF   ALICE   AND   PHCEBE   GARY. 
CHAPTER   I. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THEIR  BIRTH.  — 
THEIR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER.  — 
ANCESTRY,  CHILDHOOD,  AND  EARLY 
YOUTH  

CHAPTER   II. 

EARLY  STRUGGLES  AND  SUCCESS  .    . 

CHAPTER   III. 

THEIR  HOME.  —  HABITS  OF  LIFE 
AND  OF  LABOR.  —  THE  SUMMER 
OF  1869  


THEIR 

TIONS 


CHAPTER   IV. 
SUNDAY     EVENING    RECEP- 


CHAPTER  V. 
ALICE  CARY.  —  THE  WOMAN 


27 


PAGH 
'        38 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ALICE  GARY. —  THE  WRITER   . 

CHAPTER  VII. 
ALICE'S  LAST  SUMMER 50 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
ALICE'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL    ...    54 

CHAPTER   IX. 
PHCEBE  GARY.  —  THE  WRITER      .    .     59 

CHAPTER   X. 
PHCEBE  GARY.  —  THE  WOMAN  .    .    .    70 

CHAPTER  XI. 

PHOEBE'S    LAST    SUMMER.  —  DEATH 
AND  BURIAL 79 

CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    SISTERS    COMPARED.  —  THEIR 
LAST  RESTING-PLACE 87 


ALICE   GARY'S    POEMS. 


To  the  Spirit  of  Song 

BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 

The  Young  Soldier 

Ruth  and  I 

Hagen  Walder 

Our  School-master 

The  Gray  Swan 

The  Washerwoman 

Growin     Rich 


02 

93 
94 


97 
98 


Sandy  Macleod 98 

The  Picture-book 99 

A  Walk  through  the  Snow  ....     99 

The  Water-bearer 100 

The  Best  Judgment 102 

Hugh  Thorndyke 103 

P'aithless 103 

My  Faded  Shawl 104 

Old  Chums 106 


VI 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Shoemaker 107 

To  the  Wind 108 

Little  Cyrus 109 

Fifteen  and  Fifty no 

Jenny  Dunleath 112 

Tricksey's  Ring 114 

Crazy  Christopher 116 

The  Ferry  of  Gallaway 1 18 

Revolutionary  Story 119 

The  Daughter 120 

The  Might  of  Love 121 

"The  Grace  Wife  of  Keith  "  .     .     .122 

Johnny  Right 123 

The  Settler's  Christmas  Eve    .     .     .124 

The  Old  Story 126 

Balder's  Wife 127 

At  Rehearsal 128 

The  Fisherman's  Wife 129 

Maid  and  Man 130 

The  Double  Skein 131 

Selfish  Sorrow 132 

The  Edge  of  Doom 133 

The  Chopper's  Child 134 

The  Dead  House 136 

One  Moment 137 

The  Flax  Beater 138 

Cottage  and  Hall 140 

The  Mines  of  Avondale 141 

The  Victory  of  Perry 142 

The  Window  just  over  the  Street     .   144 

A  Fable  of  Cloud-land 145 

Barbara  at  the  Window 146 

Barbara  in  the  Meadow 146 

Ballad  of  Uncle  Joe 14? 

The  Farmer's  Daughter 149 

POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 
On  seeing  a  Drowning  Moth    .     .     .150 

Good  and  Evil 150 

Stroller's  Song 151 

A  Lesson 151 

"  He  spoils  his  house  and  throws  his 

pains  away" 151 

On  seeing  a  Wild  Bird 152 

Rich,  though  Poor 152 

"  Still  from  the  unsatisfying  quest "  .   152 
"  The  glance  that  doth  thy  neighbor 

doubt" 152 

Sixteen 153 

Prayer  for  Light 1 53 

The  Uncut  Leaf 154 

The  Might  of  Truth 154 

Two  Travelers 154 

The  Blind  Traveler 155 

My  Good  Angel 156 


Care 156 

More  Life 1 56 

Contradictory 156 

This  is  All 157 

In  Vain 157 

Best,  to  the  Best 158 

Thorns 158 

Old  Adam 158 

Sometimes 159 

"  Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful  "  .  .159 

The  Sea-side  Cave 159 

The  Measure  of  Time 159 

Idle  Fears 160 

"  Do  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil  "  160 
"  Our  unwise  purposes  are  wisely 

crossed" 160 

Hints 161 

To  a  Stagnant  River 161 

"  Apart  from  the  woes  that  are  dead 

and  gone  " 161 

Counsel 162 

Latent  Life 162 

How  and  Where 162 

The  Felled  Tree 163 

A  Dream 163 

Work -163 

Comfort 164 

Faith  and  Works 1 64 

The  Rustic  Painter 164 

One  of  Many 165 

The  Shadow 165 

The  Unwise  Choice 166 

Providence 167 

The  Living  Present 167 

The  Weaver's  Dream 167 

Not  Now 1 68 

Crags 1 68 

Man 169 

To  Solitude 169 

The  Law  of  Liberty 169 

My  Creed 170 

Open  Secrets 17° 

The  Saddest  Sight 170 

The  Bridal  Hour 171 

Idle 171 

God  is  Love 1 72 

Life's  Mysteries  .»•••••  I?3 
"  We  are  the  mariners,  and  God  the 

sea" 173 

''The  best  man  should  never  pass 

by" 173 

Pledges 174 

Proverbs  in  Rhyme 174 

Fame 174 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Vll 


Genius 

In  Bonds 

Nobility 

To  the  Muse 

"  Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low  "  .     . 

No  Ring 

Text  and  Moral 

To  my  Friend 

One  of  Many 

Light 

Trust 

Life 

Plea  for  Charity 

Second  Sight 

Life's  Roses 

Secret  Writing 

Dreams 

My  Poet 

Written  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1864 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Saved    

Spent  and  Misspent 

Last  and  Best 

POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 

If  and  If 

An  Order  for  a  Picture 

The  Summer  Storm 

The  Special  Darling 

A  Dream  of  Home 

Evening  Pastimes 

Faded  Leaves     

The  Light  of  Days  gone  by      .     .     . 

A  Sea  Song 

Sermons  in  Stones 

My  Picture 

Morning  in  the  Mountains    .... 

The  Thistle  Flower 

My  Darlings 

The  Field  Sweet-brier 

The  Little  House  on  the  Hill  .     .     . 

The  Blackbird 

Cradle  Song 

Going  to  Court 

On  the  Sea 

A  Fragment 

Shadows    

April 

Poppies 

A  Sea  Song    

Winter  and  Summer 

Autumn 

Damaris 

A  Lesson 

Katrina  on  the  Porch  .... 


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1 88 

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2OI 
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The  West  Country , 

The  Old  Homestead , 

Contradiction 

My  Dream  of  Dreams 

In  the  Dark 

An  Invalid's  Plea 

POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

The  Bridal  Veil 

Pitiless  Fate 

The  Lover's  Interdict 

Snowed  Under 

An  Emblem .     .     . 

Queen  of  Roses 

Now  and  Then 

The  Lady  to  the  Lover 

Love's  Secret  Springs 

At  Sea 

A  Confession 

Easter  Bridal  Song 

Prodigal's  Plea 

The  Seal  Fisher's  Wife 

Carmia 

Epithalamium 

Jennie 

Miriam 

"O  winds  ye  are  too  rough,  too 

rough  " 

POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND  CONSOLATION. 

Mourn  not 

Consolation . 

Under  the  Shadow 

Lost  Lilies 

A  Wonder 

Most  Beloved 

My  Darlings 

In  Despair 

Wait 

The  Other  Side 

A  Wintry  Waste 

The  Shadow 

How  Peace  came 

Be  still 

Vanished 

Safe 

Waiting 

Intimations 

The  Great  Question 

"  What  comfort,  when  with  clouds  of 

of  woe  " 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 

Thanksgiving 

"  Hope  in  our  hearts  doth  only  stay  " 

Morning 

One  Dust 


PAGE 
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Vlll 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Signs  of  Grace 

January      

Alone 

A  Prayer  

Counsel 

Supplication 

Putting  off  the  Armor     ..'... 

Forgiveness 

The  Golden  Mean 

The  Fire  by  the  Sea 

The  Sure  Witness 

A  Penitent's  Plea 

Love  is  Life 

"  Thy    works,     O    Lord,     interpret 

Thee" 

"Our  God  is  love,  and  that  which  we 

miscall " 

Time 

Supplication 

Whither 

Sure  Anchor 

Remember 

Adelied.  • 

Sunday  Morning 

In  the  Dark 

Parting  Song 

The  Heaven  that 's  here 

"  Among  the  pitfalls  in  our  way  " 

The  Stream  of  Life 

Dead  and  Alive 

Life  of  Life 

Mercies 

Pleasure  and  Pain 

Mysteries 

Lyric 

Trust 

All  in  All 

The  Pure  in  Heart 

Unsatisfied 

More  Life 

Light  and  Darkness 

Substance 

Life's  Mystery . 


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For  Self-help 

Dying  Hymn 

Extremities 

Here  and  There 

The  Dawn  of  Peace 

Occasional 

"  Why  should  our  spirits  be  opprest  ? ' 
POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

The  Little  Blacksmith 

Little  Children 

A  Christmas  Story •    . 

November 

Make-believe 

A  Nut  hard  to  crack 

Hide  and  Seek 

Three  Bugs 

Waiting  for  Something  to  turn  up    . 

Suppose 

A  Good  Rule 

To  Mother  Fairie 

Barbara  Blue 

Take  care        

The  Grateful  Swan 

A  Short  Sermon 

Story  of  a  Blackbird 

Fairy-folk       

Buried  Gold 

Recipe  for  an  Appetite 

The  Pig  and  the  Hen 

Spider  and  Fly 

A  Lesson  of  Mercy 

The  Flower  Spider 

Dan  and  Dimple  and  how  they  quar 
reled  

To  a  Honey-bee 

At  the  Tavern 

What  a  Bird  taught 

Old  Maxims 

Peter  Grey 

A  Sermon  for  Young  Folks     .     .     . 

Telling  Fortunes 

The  Wise  Fairy 

A  Child's  Wisdom 


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'253 

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276 


PHCEBE   GARY'S    POEMS. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 

Dovecote  Mill 281 

The  Homestead .281 

The  Gardener's  Home      ....  282 

The  Mill 283 

Sugar-making 284 

The  Playmates 284 


The  School 286 

Youth  and  Maiden 287 

The  Country  Grave-yard  .     .     .     .287 

Wooing 288 

Plighted 289 

Wedded 290 

The  Baby 292 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


IX 


The  Father 292 

The  Wife 294 

A  Ballad  of  Lauderdale 295 

The  Three  Wrens 298 

Dorothy's  Dower 300 

Black  Ranald 301 

The  Leak  in  the  Dike 303 

The  Landlord  of  the  Blue  Hen    .     .  305 

The  King's  Jewel 306 

Edgar's  Wife 307 

The  Fickle  Day 307 

The  Maid  of  Kirconnell 308 

Saint  Macarius  of  the  Desert  .     .     .  308 

Fair  Eleanor 310 

Breaking  the  Roads 310 

The  Christmas  Sheaf 312 

Little  Gottlieb 313 

A  Monkish  Legend 314 

Arthur's  Wife 315 

Gracie 316 

Poor  Margaret 317 

Lady  Marjory 317 

The  Old  Man's  Darling 320 

A  Tent  Scene 320 

The  Lady  Jaqueline 321 

The  Wife's  Christmas 322 

Coming  round 322 

The  Lamp  on  the  Prairie     ....  323 
POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 

A  Weary  Heart 326 

Coming  Home 326 

Hidden  Sorrow 327 

A  Woman's  Conclusions      ....  327 

Answered 328 

Disenchanted 328 

Alas  ! 328 

Mother  and  Son 329 

Theodora 329 

Up  and  Down 330 

Beyond 331 

Favored 332 

Women 332 

The  only  Ornament 332 

Equality 333 

Ebb  Tide 333 

Happy  Women 333 

Loss  and  Gain 334 

A  Prayer 334 

Memorial 334 

The  Harmless  Luxury 335 

Tried  and  True 335 

Peace 336 

Sunset 336 

APol°gy 337 


The  Shadow 

Morning  and  Afternoon  .     .     .     . 

Living  by  Faith 

My  Lady 

Passing  Feet 

My  Riches 

Figs  of  Thistles 

Impatience 

Thou  and  I 

Nobody's  Child 

POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 

An  April  Welcome 

My  Neighbor's  House     .     .     .     . 

The  Fortune  in  the  Daisy    .     .     . 

A  Picture  

Faith 

To  an  Elf  on  a  Buttercup     .    .     . 

Providence     

Old  Pictures 

The  Playmates 

"  The  Barefoot  Boy  " 

Winter  Flowers 

March  Crocuses 

Homesick 

"  Field  Preaching  " 

Gathering  Blackberries    .... 

Our  Homestead 

Spring  after  the  War 

The  Book  of  Nature 

Sugar-making 

Spring  Flowers 

POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

Amy's  Love  Letter 

Do  you  blame  her  ? 

Song 

Somebody's  Lover 

On  the  River 

Inconstancy 

Love  cannot  die 

Helpless . 

My  Helper 

Faithful 

The  Last  Act 

True  Love 

Complaint 

Doves'  Eyes 

The  Hunter's  Wife 

Lovers  and  Sweethearts  .... 

The  Rose 

Archie 

A  Day  Dream 

The  Prize 

A  Woman's  Answer 

In  Absence  .    , 


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364 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Enchantment 364 

Wooed  and  Won 364 

Love's  Recompense 365 

Jealousy 365 

Song 366 

I  cannot  tell 366 

Dead  Love 366 

My  Friend 367 

Dreams  and  Realities 371 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 

Nearer  Home 372 

Many  Mansions 372 

The  Spiritual  Body 374 

A  Good  Day 375 

Hymn 375 

Drawing  Water 375 

Too  Late 375 

Retrospect 376 

Human  and  Divine 376 

Over-payment 377 

Vain  Repentance 377 

In  Extremity 378 

Peccavi 378 

Christmas 378 

Compensation 379 

Reconciled 380 

Thou  knowest 381 

Christmas 382 

Prodigals 382 

St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux 383 

The  Widow's  Thanksgiving     .     .     .  384 

Via  Crucis,  Via  Lucis 385 

Hymn 385 

Of  one  Flesh 386 

Teach  us  to  wait 386 

In  His  Army 387 

"  The  heart  is  not  satisfied  "...  387 

Unbelief 387 

The  Vision  on  the  Mount     .     .     .     •  387 

A  Canticle 388 

The  Cry  of  the  Heart  and  Flesh  .     .  389 

Our  Pattern 389 

The  Earthly  House 389 

Ye  did  it  unto  Me 39° 

The  Sinner  at  the  Cross 391 

The  Heir 392 

Realities 392 

Hymn 392 

Wounded 393 


A  Cry  of  the  Heart 393 

POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND  CONSOLATION. 

Earth  to  Earth 394 

The  Unhonored 394 

Jennie 395 

Cowper's  Consolation 396 

Twice  smitten 396 

Border-land 397 

The  Last  Bed 397 

Light 397 

Waiting  the  Change 398 

PERSONAL  POEMS. 

Ready 399 

Dickens 399 

Thaddeus  Stevens 400 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 400 

The  Hero  of  Fort  Wagner  .     .     .     .401 

Garibaldi  in  Piedmont 401 

John  Brown 4°3 

Otway 403 

Our  Good  President 4°4 

POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

To  the  Children 405 

Griselda  Goose 4°5 

The  Robin's  Nest 410 

Rain  and  Sunshine 412 

Baby's  Ring 412 

Don't  give  up 412 

The  Good  Little  Sister 413 

Now 4H 

The  Chicken's  Mistake 4H 

Effie's  Reasons 4H 

Feathers 415 

The  Prairie  on  Fire 4^ 

Dappledun 4J7 

Suppose 4T7 

A  Legend  of  the  Northland    .     .     .  4:7 

Easy  Lessons 4l8 

Obedience 4^9 

The  Crow's  Children 42° 

Hives  and  Homes 42° 

Nora's  Charm 42* 

They  didn't  think 422 

Ajax 423 

"  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  "     .     .     .     .  423 

What  the  Frogs  sing 423 

The  Hunchback 425 

The  Envious  Wren 425 

The  Happy  Little  Wife 42^ 


A    MEMORIAL 


OF 


ALICE  AND   PHCEBE  GARY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THEIR  BIRTH.  —  THEIR 
FATHER  AND  MOTHER. — ANCESTRY, 
CHILDHOOD,  AND  EARLY  YOUTH. 

IN  a  brown  house,  "  low  and  small," 
on  a  farm  in  the  Miami  Valley,  eight 
miles  north  of  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  Alice 
Cary  was  born  on  the  26th  day  of  April, 
1820.  In  the  same  house,  September  4, 
1824,  was  born  her  sister  and  life-long 
companion,  Phcebe. 

This  house  appeared  and  reappeared 
in  the  verse  of  both  sisters,  till  their 
last  lines  were  written.  Their  affection 
for  it  was  a  deep  and  life-long  emotion. 
Each  sister,  within  the  blinds  of  a  city 
house,  used  to  shut  her  eyes  and  listen 
till  she  thought  she  heard  the  rustle  of 
the  cherry-tree  on  the  old  roof,  and 
smelled  again  the  sweet-brier  under  the 
window.  You  will  realize  how  per 
fectly  it  was  daguerreotyped  on  Phoe 
be's  heart  when  you  follow  two  of  the 
many  pictures  which  she  has  left  of  it. 
Phoebe  says:  "The  house  was  small, 
unpainted,  without  the  slightest  preten 
sions  to  architectural  beauty.  It  was 
one  story  and  a  half  in  height,  the  front 
looking  toward  the  west  and  separated 
from  the 'high-road  by  a  narrow  strip 
of  door-yard  grass.  A  low  porch  ran 
across  the  north  of  the  house,  and  from 
the  steps  of  this  a  path  of  blue  flag 
stones  led  to  a  cool,  unfailing  well  of 
water  a  few  yards  distant.  Close  to 


the  walls,  on  two  sides,  and  almost  push 
ing  their  strong,  thrifty  boughs  through 
the  little  attic  window,  flourished  sev 
eral  fruitful  apple  and  cherry  trees  ;  and 
a  luxuriant  sweet-brier,  the  only  thing 
near  that  seemed  designed  solely  for 
ornament,  almost  covered  the  other  side 
of  the  house.  Beyond  the  door-yard, 
and  sloping  toward  the  south,  lay  a 
small  garden,  with  two  straight  rows 
of  currant  bushes  dividing  its  entire 
length,  and  beds  of  vegetables  laid  out 
on  either  side.  Close  against  the  fence 
nearest  the  yard  grew  several  varieties 
of  roses,  and  a  few  hardy  and  common 
flowers  bordered  the  walks.  In  one 
corner  a  thriving  peach-tree  threw  in 
summer  its  shade  over  a  row  of  bee 
hives,  and  in  another  its  withered  mate 
was  supported  and  quite  hidden  by  a 
fragant  bower  of  hop  vines.  A  little 
in  the  rear  of  the  dwelling  stood  the 
ample,  weather-beaten  barn,  the  busy 
haunt  of  the  restless  swallows  and  quiet, 
i  comfortable  doves,  and  in  all  seasons 
!  the  never-failing  resort  of  the  children. 
!  A  stately  and  symmetrical  oak,  which 
;  had  been  kindly  spared  from  the  forest 
I  when  the  clearing  for  the  house  was 
i  made,  grew  near  it,  and  in  the  summer 
j  threw  its  thick,  cool  shadow  over  the 
road,  making  a  grateful  shade  for  the 
tired  traveler,  and  a  pleasant  play 
ground  for  the  children,  whose  voices, 
now  so  many  of  them  stilled,  once  made 
life  and  music  there  through  all  the  live 
long  day." 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   PHCEBE    GARY. 


OUR    HOMESTEAD. 

Our  old   brown  homestead  reared  its 

walls 

From  the  wayside  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost 

cast 

Their  fruit  upon  its  roof  ; 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

That,  when  awake  I  've  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I  've  heard  the 

limbs 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane  ; 
And   those   orchard    trees  !    oh,  those 

orchard  trees  ! 

I  've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier  under  the  window-sill, 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 
And  the    damask   rose  by  the  garden 

fence, 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I  've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier, 

But  not  to  me  so  fair  ; 
For  those  roses  bright !  oh,  those  roses 

bright ! 
I   have  twined  them    in  my  sister's 

locks 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight. 

We  had  a  well  —  a  deep,  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And    the    cool   drops    down    from    the 

mossy  stones 
Were  falling  constantly  : 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 
As  the  draught  which  filled  my  cup. 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude,  old 

sweep, 

That  my  father's  hand  set  up  ; 
And  that  deep,  old  well !  oh,  that  deep, 

old  well ! 

I  remember  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 

Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet  ; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was   always 
kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ; 
And  there  I  've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With   my  childish   hand   in   his   raven 
hair  — 

That  hair  is  silver,  now  ! 


But  that  broad  hearth's  ligl.t  !  oh,  that 

broad  hearth's  light  ! 
And  my  father's  look,  and  my  moth 
er's  smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart,  to-night ! 

In  her  "  Order  for  a  Picture,"  which 
was  her  favorite  among  all  the  poems 
she  had  ever  written,  Alice  has  given 
us  another  reflection  of  her  first  home 
upon  earth,  and  its  surroundings  :  — 

"  Oh,  good  painter,  tell  me  true, 
'   Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ? 
Aye  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

"Woods      and      cornfields,      a     little 

brown  — 

The     picture     must     not    be    over- 
bright— 
Yet   all  in  the  golden  and  gracious 

light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is 

down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When    the    wind    can    hardly    find 

breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels,  —  cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short,  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,    good    painter,    you    can't   paint 

sound  !)  — 
These,   and    the    house   where    I    was 

born, 

Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows  open  wide,  — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside  : 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush  : 

Perhaps  you   may  have    seen,  some 

day, 

Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush." 

In  such  a  home  were  born  Alice  and 
Phoebe  Gary ;  Alice,  the  fourth,  and 
Phoebe,  the  sixth  child  of  Robert  Gary 
and  Elizabeth  Jessup,  his  wife. 

Phoebe,  in  her  precious  memorial  of 
Alice,  gives  this  picture  of  their  fa 
ther  and  mother:  "  Robert  Gary  was  a 
man  of  superior  intelligence,  of  sound 
principles,  and  blameless  life.  He 


THEIR  FATHER   AND   MOTHER. 


was  very  fond  of  reading,  especially  ro 
mances  and  poetry  ;  but  early  poverty 
and  the  hard  exigencies  of  pioneer  life 
had  left  him  no  time  for  acquiring  any 
thing  more  than  the  mere  rudiments  of 
a  common  school  education  ;  and  the 
consciousness  of  his  want  of  culture, 
and  an  invincible  diffidence  born  with 
him,  gave  him  a  shrinking,  retiring  man 
ner,  and  a  want  of  confidence  in  his 
own  judgment,  which  was  inherited  to 
a  large  measure  by  his  offspring.  He 
was  a  tender,  loving  father,  who  sang 
his  children  to  sleep  with  holy  hymns, 
and  habitually  went  about  his  work  re 
peating  the  grand  old  Hebrew  poets, 
and  the  sweet  and  precious  promises 
of  the  New  Testament  of  our  Lord." 
Ada  Carnahan,  the  child  of  Robert  and 
Elizabeth  Gary's  oldest  daughter,  who 
inherits  in  no  small  degree  the  fine 
mental  gifts  of  her  family,  in  her  ad 
mirable  sketch  of  her  Aunt  Phoebe, 
published  in  the  Boston  "  Ladies'  Re 
pository,"  says  of  this  father  of  poets  : 
"  When  he  had  no  longer  children  in 
his  arms,  he  still  went  on  singing  to 
himself,  and  held  in  his  heart  the  words 
that  he  had  so  often  repeated.  For 
him  the  common  life  of  a  farmer  was 
idealized  into  poetry;  springtime  and 
harvest  were  ever  recurring  miracles, 
and  dumb  animals  became  companion 
able.  Horses  and  cattle  loved  him,  and 
would  follow  him  all  over  the  farm, 
sure  to  receive  at  least  a  kind  word  or 
gentle  pat,  and  perhaps  a  few  grains  of 
corn,  or  a  lump  of  salt  or  sugar  ;  and 
there  was  no  colt  so  shy  that  would  not 
eat  out  his  hand,  and  rub  its  head  ca 
ressingly  against  his  shoulder.  Of  his 
children,  Alice  the  most  resembled  him 
in  person,  and  all  the  tender  and  close 
sympathy  with  nature,  and  with  hu 
manity,  which  in  her  found  expression, 
had  in  him  an  existence  as  real,  if 
voiceless.  In  his  youth  he  must  have 
been  handsome.  He  was  six  feet  in 
height,  and  well  proportioned,  with 
curling  black  hair,  bright  brown  eyes, 
slightly  aquiline  nose,  and  remarkably 
beautiful  teeth."  Those  who  saw  him 
in  New  York,  in  the  home  of  his  daugh 
ters,  remember  him  a  silver-haired,  sad- 
eyed,  soft-voiced  patriarch,  remarkable 
for  the  gentleness  of  his  manners,  and 
the  emotional  tenderness  of  his  tem 
perament.  Tears  rose  to  his  eyes, 


smiles  flitted  across  his  face,  precisely 
as  they  did  in  the  face  of  Alice.  He 
was  the  prototype  of  Alice.  In  her 
was  reproduced  not  only  his  form  and 
features,  but  his  mental,  moral,  and 
emotional  nature.  To  see  father  and 
daughter  together,  one  would  involun 
tarily  exclaim,  a  How  alike  !  "  They 
loved  to  be  together.  It  was  a  delight 
to  the  father  to  take  that  long  journey 
from  the  Western  farm  to  the  New 
York  home.  Here,  for  the  first  time, 
he  found  reproduced  in  reality  many  of 
the  dreams  of  his  youth.  Nothing 
gave  greater  delight  to  his  daughters 
than  "  to  take  father  "  to  see  pictures, 
to  visit  friends,  and  to  join  in  evening 
receptions.  In  the  latter  he  took  es 
pecial  pleasure,  when  he  could  sit  in  an 
arm-chair  and  survey  the  bright  scene 
before  him.  He  had  poet  eyes  to  see, 
and  a  poet's  heart  to  feel  the  beauty  of 
woman.  Alice  had  a  friend  whom  he 
never  mentioned  save  as  "  your  friend 
the  pretty  woman."  He  was  informed, 
one  evening,  at  a  small  party,  that  the 
beautiful  young  lady  whom  he  was  ad 
miring,  and  who  looked  about  twenty- 
five,  was  a  happy  matron  and  the 
mother  of  a  grown-up  son.  His  look 
of  childlike  amazement  was  irresist 
ible.  "  Well,  well,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  mothers  of  grown-up  sons  never 
looked  as  young  as  that  in  my  day  !  " 
The  wife  of  this  man,  the  mother  of 
Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,  was  blue-eyed 
and  beautiful.  Her  children  lived  to 
rise  up  and  call  her  blessed.  Alice 
said  of  her  :  "  My  mother  was  a  woman 
of  superior  intellect  and  of  good,  well- 
ordered  life.  In  my  memory  she  stands 
apart  from  all  others,  wiser,  purer,  do 
ing  more,  and  living  better  than  any 
other  woman."  And  this  is  her  por 
trait  of  her  mother  in  her  "  Order  for  a 
Picture  "  :  — 

"  A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for 

me  : 
Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The    sovereign    sweetness,  the   gentle 

grace," 

The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face 
That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while, 
I    need    not    speak   these    foolish 
words  : 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   PUCE  BE   CARY. 


Yet  one  word  tells  you  all   I  woulJ 

say, 

She  is  my  mother :  you  will  agree 
That   all    the    rest   may   be    thrown 

away." 

Phoebe  said  of  her  :  "  She  was  the 
wonder  of  my  childhood.  She  is  no 
less  a  wonder  to  me  as  I  recall  her 
now.  How  she  did  so  much  work,  and 
yet  did  it  well ;  how  she  reared  care 
fully,  and  governed  wisely,  so  large  a 
family  of  children,  and  yet  found  time 
to  develop  by  thought  and  reading  a 
mind  of  unusual  strength  and  clearness, 
is  still  a  mystery  to  me.  She  was  fond 
of  history,  politics,  moral  essays,  biog 
raphy,  and  works  of  religious  contro 
versy.  Poetry  she  read,  but  cared 
little  for  fictitious  literature.  An  ex 
emplary  housewife,  a  wise  and  kind 
mother,  she  left  no  duty  unfulfilled,  yet 
she  found  time,  often  at  night,  after 
every  other  member  of  the  household 
was  asleep,  by  reading,  to  keep  herself 
informed  of  all  the  issues  of  the  day, 
political,  social,  and  religious."  When 
we  remember  that  the  woman  who  kept 
herself  informed  of  all  the  issues  of  the 
day,  political,  social,  and  religious,  was 
the  mother  of  nine  children,  a  house 
wife,  who  performed  the  labor  of  her 
large  household  with  her  own  hands  ; 
that  she  lived  in  a  rural  neighbor 
hood,  wherein  personal  and  family 
topics  were  the  supreme  subjects  of 
discussion,  aloof  from  the  larger  inter 
ests  and  busy  thoroughfares  of  men,  we 
can  form  a  juster  estimate  of  the  su 
periority  of  her  natural  powers,  and 
the  native  breadth  of  her  mind  and 
heart. 

Such  were  the  father  and  mother  of 
Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary.  From  their 
father  they  inherited  the  poetic  tem 
perament,  the  love  of  nature,  and  of 
dumb  creatures,  their  loving  and  pity 
ing  hearts,  which  were  so  large  that 
they  enfolded  all  breathing  and  un- 
breathing  things.  From  their  mother 
they  inherited  their  interest  in  public 
affairs,  their  passion  for  justice,  their 
devotion  to  truth  and  duty  as  they  saw 
it,  their  clear  perceptions,  and  sturdy 
common  sense. 

Blended  with  their  personal  love  for 
their  father  and  mother,  was  an  ingenu 
ous  pride  and  delight  in  their  ancestry. 


They  were  proud  of  their  descent. 
This  was  especially  true  of  Phoebe. 
With  all  her  personal  modesty,  which 
was  very  marked,  pride  of  race  was 
one  of  Phoebe  Gary's  distinguishing 
traits.  She  was  proud  of  the  Gary 
coat-of-arms,  which  hung  framed  in 
the  little  library  in  Twentieth  Street  ; 
prouder  still  to  trace  her  name  from 
the  true  and  gentle  father  who  gave  it 
to  her,  to  the  John  Gary  who  taught 
the  first  Latin  school  in  Plymouth,  and 
from  him  to  the  gallant  Sir  Robert 
Gary,  who  vanquished  a  chevalier  of 
Aragon,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  V.,  in 
Smithfield,  London.  A  friend,  in  a 
former  biographical  sketch  of  the  two 
sisters,  referring  to  this  knight,  said 
that  the  genealogy  which  connected 
him  with  the  American  Gary  family 
"is  at  best  unverified."  In  private, 
Phoebe  often  referred  to  this  published 
doubt  with  considerable  feeling. 

"  Why  do  you  care  ?  "  asked  a  friend. 
"  The  conqueror  of  the  Knight  of  Ara 
gon  cannot  make  you  more  or  less." 

"  But  I  do  care,"  she  said.  "  He 
was  uiy  ancestor  it  has  been  proved. 
He  bore  the  same  name  as  my  own 
father.  I  don't  like  to  have  any  doubt 
cast  upon  it.  It  is  a  great  comfort  to 
me  to  know  that  we  sprung  from  a 
noble,  not  an  ignoble  race."  This  fact 
was  so  much  to  her  in  life,  it  seems  but 
just  that  she  should  have  the  full  bene 
fit  of  it  in  death.  Thus  is  given  the 
entire  story  of  the  Knight  of  Aragon, 
as  printed  in  Burke's  "Heraldry,"  with 
the  complete  genealogy  of  the  branch 
of  the  American  Gary  family  to  which 
Alice  and  Phoebe  belong  :  — 

John  Gary,  a  lineal  descendant  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gary  (a  cousin  of  Queen  Eliza 
beth),  came  to  the  Plymouth  Colony 
in  1630,  was  prominent  and  influential 
among  'the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  He  was 
thoroughly  educated  —  taught  the  first 
Latin  class,  and  held  important  offices 
in  the  town  and  church.  He  married 
Elizabeth,  a  daughter  of  Francis  God 
frey,  in  1644.  He  died  in  Bridgewater, 
in  1 68 1,  aged  80  years. 


SECOND   GENERATION. 

Joseph,  the  ninth  child  of  John,  born 
in    Plymouth,    in    1665,    emigrated   to 


THE    CARY  ANCESTRY. 


5 


Connecticut,  and  was  one  of  the  origi 
nal  proprietors  of  the  town  of  Wind- 
ham.  At  the  organization  of  the  first 
church  in  Windham,  in  the  year  1700, 
he  was  chosen  deacon.  He  was  a  use 
ful  and  very  prominent  man.  He  died 
in  1722. 

THIRD    GENERATION. 

John,  the  fourth  child  of  Joseph, 
born  in  Windham,  Connecticut,  June 
23,  1695,  married  Hannah  Thurston, 
resided  in  Windham,  was  a  man  of 
wealth  and  influence  in  the  church  and 
in  public  affairs.  He  died  in  1776, 
aged  8 1  years. 

FOURTH  GENERATION. 

Samuel,  the  ninth  child  of  John, 
born  June  13,  1734,  graduated  at  Yale 
College  in  the  class  of  1755,  was  a 
physician,  eminent  in  his  profession  ; 
married  Deliverance  Grant,  in  Bolton, 
Connecticut,  and  emigrated  to  Lyme, 
New  Hampshire,  among  the  first  col 
onists,  where  he  died  in  1784. 

FIFTH  GENERATION. 

Christopher,  the  eldest  child  of  Sam 
uel,  born  February  25,  1763,  joined  the 
army  at  an  early  age,  under  Colonel 
Waite  of  New  Hampshire  ;  was  taken 
prisoner  by  the  British,  and  suffered 
great  hardships.  He  married  Elsie 
Terrel,  at  Lyme,  New  Hampshire,  in 
1784,  removed  with  his  family  to  Cin 
cinnati,  Ohio,  in  1802,  died  at  College 
Hill,  Ohio,  in  1837. 

SIXTH   GENERATION. 

Robert,  the  second  child  of  Christo 
pher,  born  January  24,  1787,  emigrated 
with  his  father  to  the  Northwest  Terri 
tory  in  1802.  settled  upon  a  farm  near 
Mount  Healthy,  Hamilton  County, 
Ohio,  married  Elizabeth  Jessup  in 
1814,  was  a  soldier  in  the  war  of  1812, 
and  was  at  Hull's  surrender.  He  died 
in  1866.  Their  children  were  :  — 

1.  Rowena,  born   1814,  married  Car- 
nahan,  died  1869. 

2.  Susan,  born    1816,  married  Alex. 
Swift,  died  1852. 

3.  Rhoda,  born  1818,  died  1833. 

4.  Alice,  born  1820,  died  1871. 


5.  Asa,  born    1822,  living  at  Mount 
Pleasant,  Ohio. 

6.  Phoebe,  born  1824,  died  1871. 

7.  Warren,    born    1826,    living    near 
Harrison,  Ohio. 

8.  Lucy,  born  1829,  died  1833. 

9.  Elmina,  born   1831,  married  Alex. 
Swift,  and  died  1862. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  V.,  a  certain  knight-errant  of 
Aragon,  having  passed  through  divers 
countries  and  performed  many  feats  of 
arms,  to  his  high  commendation,  ar 
rived  here  in  England,  where  he  chal 
lenged  any  man  of  his  rank  and  quality 
to  make  trial  of  his  valor  and  skill  in 
arms.  This  challenge  Sir  Robert  Gary 
accepted,  between  whom  a  cruel  en 
counter  and  a  long  and  doubtful  com 
bat  was  waged  in  Smithfield,  London. 
But  at  length  this  noble  champion  van 
quished  the  presumptuous  Aragonois, 
for  which  King  Henry  V.  restored 
unto  him  a  good  part  of  his  father's 
lands,  which,  for  his  loyalty  to  Richard 
II.,  he  had  been  deprived  by  Henry 
IV.,  and  authorized  him  to  bear  the 
arms  of  the  Knight  of  Aragon,  which 
the  noble  posterity  continue  to  wear 
unto  this  day ;  for  according  to  the 
laws  of  heraldry,  whoever  fairly  in  the 
field  conquers  his  adversary,  may  jus 
tify  the  wearing  of  his  arms." 

Phoebe  had  the  Cary  coat  of  arms 
engraved  on  a  seal  ring,  which  was 
taken  from  her  finger  after  death. 

You  see  that  it  happened  to  the  Cary 
family,  as  to  many  another  of  long 
descent,  that  it  emerged  from  the  vi 
cissitudes  of  time  and  toil,  poor,  pos 
sessing  no  finer  weapon  to  vanquish 
hostile  fate  than  the  intrinsic  temper  of 
its  inherited  quality,  the  precious  metal 
of  honesty,  industry,  integrity,  bravery, 
honor  —  in  fine,  true  manhood.  The 
great-grandfather  of  Alice  and  Phoebe, 
Samuel  Cary,  was  graduated  from  Yale. 
A  physician  by  profession,  in  Lyme, 
New  Hampshire,  he  seems  to  have 
been  the  last  of  the  manifold  "  Cary 
boys  "  who  possessed  the  advantages 
of  a  liberal  education.  His  eldest  son, 
Christopher,  entered  the  army  of  the 
Revolution  at  the  age  of  eighteen. 
When  peace  was  won,  the  young  man 
received  not  money,  but  a  land  grant, 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   PHCEBE    GARY. 


or  warrant,  in  Hamilton  County,  Ohio, 
as  his  recompense.  The  necessity  of 
poverty  probably  compelled  Christo 
pher  to  the  lot  or"  a  tiller  of  the  soil. 

And  even  Phoebe,  if  she  thought  of 
it,  must  have  acknowledged  that  this 
grandsire  of  hers,  who  went  into  the 
army  of  freedom  to  fight  the  battles  of 
his  country  at  eighteen,  who,  when  lib 
erty  was  won,  went  to  struggle  with  the 
earth,  to  wrest  from  the  wilderness  a 
home  for  himself  and  his  children,  \vas 
an  ancestor  more  worthy  of  her  admi 
ration  and  pride  than  even  the  doughty 
Sir  Robert,  who  fought  with  and  over 
came  the  Knight  of  Aragon.  The  ed 
itor  of  the  "  Central  Christian  Advo 
cate,"  in  writing  of  the  death  of  Alice, 
says  :  — 

"  We  remember  well  her  grandfather, 
and  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
hill,  where  his  land  grant  was  located. 
In  early  boyhood  we  often  climbed  the 
hills,  and  sometimes  listened  to  the 
conversation  of  the  somewhat  rough 
and  rugged  soldier,  whom  we  all  called 
'  Uncle  Christopher.'  " 

Robert  Gary  came  with  his  father, 
Christopher,  from  New  Hampshire  to 
the  wilderness  of  Ohio  in  1803,  at  the 
age  of  fifteen.  Says  his  granddaugh 
ter,  Ada  Carnahan  :  "  They  traveled 
in  an  emigrant  wagon  to  Pittsfield,  and 
descending  the  river  on  a  flat-boat,  ar 
rived  at  Fort  Washington.  This  was 
a  thriving  settlement,  though  its  people 
had  hardly  ceased  to  depend  on  its  fort 
for  protection  from  the  savages,  who 
s,till  infested  the  surrounding  forests 
and  made  occasional  incursions  into  its 
immediate  neighborhood."  Here,  for 
several  years,  the  family  remained,  be 
fore  making  a  purchase  of  lands  some 
eight  miles  north  of  the  settlement,  on 
what  is  still  known  as  the  Hamilton 
Road. 

Robert  Cary  and  Elizabeth  Jessup 
were  married  January  13,  1814,  and 
began  their  married  life  upon  a  quar 
ter  section  of  the  original  Cary  pur 
chase,  the  same  land  which  will  be  re 
membered  for  many  generations  as  the 
Clovernook  of  Alice  Gary's  stories. 
Again  says  Ada  Carnahan  :  "In  the 
comparatively  short  time  that  had 
elapsed,  there  had  been  most  marvel 
ous  changes  in  all  this  vicinity.  The 
red-man  had  disappeared.  Log  cabins 


and  their  surrounding  clearings  were 
scattered  all  over  the  region,  while 
here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  more 
pretentious  frame  dwelling.  One  of 
the  latter  Robert  Cary  reared  for  his 
home,  which  it  continued  to  be  for 
eighteen  years,  during  which  his  nine 
children  were  born.  The  farm  upon 
which  Robert  and  Elizabeth  Cary  be 
gan  life  was  not,  however,  a  gift,  and 
it  was  the  work  of  many  laborious 
years  to  clear  it  from  the  incumbrance 
of  debt  —  years  which  could  not  but 
make  their  impression  upon  their  ris 
ing  family,  and  inculcate  those  lessons 
of  perseverance,  industry,  and  econ 
omy,  which  are  the  very  foundations  of 
success."  .... 

"  As  is  almost  always  the  case  in 
large  families,  the  Cary  children  di 
vided  themselves  into  groups  and  coup 
les,  as  age  and  disposition  dictated.  In 
this  grouping,  Alice  and  Phoebe,  after 
wards  to  be  brought  into  such  close 
communion  of  life  and  thought,  were 
separated.  Alice's  passionate  devo 
tion  in  life  and  death  to  the  sister  next 
older  than  herself  is  well  known,  while 
Phoebe,  standing  between  her  two 
brothers,  turned  toward  the  younger 
of  these,  whom  she  made  her  constant 

playfellow The    children   were 

much  together  in  the  open  air,  and 
were  intimately  acquainted  with  every 
nook  and  corner  of  their  father's  farm. 
They  gathered  wild  flowers  in  May- 
time,  and  nuts  in  October,  and  learned 
to  love  the  company  of  trees  and  blos 
soms,  birds  and  insects,  and  became 
deeply  imbued  with  the  love  of  nature. 
They  were  sensitive  and  imaginative, 
and  it  may  well  be  that  they,  at  least 
two  of  them,  saw  more  beauty,  and 
heard  more  melody  in  nature  than 
every  eye  is  open  to  perceive.  As 
they  grew  older,  this  kind  of  holiday 
life  was  interrupted  by  occasional  at 
tendance  upon  the  district  school,  and 
by  instruction  in  such  household  em 
ployments  as  were  deemed  indispen 
sable —  in  knitting,  sewing,  spinning, 
cooking,  churning,  etc.  Of  all  these, 
Phoebe  only  became  proficient  in  the 
first  two.  In  both  these  she  took 
pleasure  up  to  the  time  of  her  last  ill 
ness,  and  in  both  she  was  unusually 
dexterous  and  neat,  as  well  as  in  pen 
manship,  showing  in  these  respects  a 


CHILDHOOD. 


marked  contrast  to  Alice.  The  school- 
house  in  which  they  gained  the  rudi 
ments  of  an  English  education  was  dis 
tant  a  mile  and  a  quarter  from  their 
home.  The  plain,  one  story  brick 
building  is  still  used  for  school  pur 
poses.  This  distance  was  always 
walked.  Upon  her  last  visit  to  this 
vicinity,  in  1867,  Phcebe  Gary  pointed 
out  to  me  a  goodly  forest  tree,  growing 
at  one  side,  but  in  the  highway,  and 
told  how,  when  they  were  returning 
from  school,  one  day,  Alice  found  lying 
in  the  road  a  freshly  cut  switch,  and 
picked  it  up,  saying,  '  Let  us  stick  it 
in  the  ground  and  see  if  it  will  grow; ' 
and  immediately  acting  on  her  own 
suggestion,  she  stuck  it  in  the  ground  ; 
and  there,  after  more  than  thirty-five 
years,  it  stood,  a  graceful  and  fitting 
monument  to  the  gracious  and  tender 
nature  which  bade  it  live. 

"In  the  autumn  of  1832,  by  perse 
vering  industry  and  frugal  living,  the 
farm  was  at  last  paid  for,  and  a  new 
and  more  commodious  dwelling  erected 
for  the  reception  of  the  family,  grown 
too  large  to  be  longer  sheltered  by 
the  old  roof-tree.  This  new  dwelling, 
which  is  still  standing,  is  no  more  than 
the  plainest  of  farm-houses,  built  at  a 
time  when  the  family  were  obliged  to 
board  the  builders,  and  the  bricks  were 
burned  on  the  spot ;  yet  it  represents 
a  degree  of  comfort  only  attained  after 
a  long  struggle." 

ult  cost  many  years  of  toil  and  pri 
vation  —  the  new  house.  We  thought 
it  the  beginning  of  better  times.  In 
stead,  all  the  sickness  and  death  in  the 
family  dates  from  the  time  that  it  was 
finished.  It  seems  as  if  nothing  but 
trouble  and  sorrow  have  come  since," 
said  Alice  Gary,  late  in  the  autumn  of 
1869,  to  a  friend,  as  her  starry  eyes 
shone  out  from  her  pallid  face,  amid 
the  delicate  laces  of  her  pillow,  in  the 
chamber  on  Twentieth  Street. 

"  Before  that  time  I  had  two  sources 
of  unalloyed  happiness  :  the  compan 
ionship  of  my  sister  Rhoda,  and  the 
care  of  my  little  sister  Lucy.  I  shall 
always  think  Rhoda  was  the  most 
gifted  of  all  our  family.  The  stories 
that  she  used  to  tell  me  on  our  way 
home  from  school  had  in  them  the 
germ  of  the  most  wonderful  novels  — 
of  better  novels  than  we  read  nowa 


days.  When  we  saw  the  house  in 
sight,  we  would  often  sit  down  under  a 
tree,  that  she  might  have  more  time  to 
finish  the  story.  My  anxiety  concern 
ing  the  fate  of  the  people  in  it  was  of 
ten  so  great  I  could  not  possibly  wait 
to  have  it  continued.  At  another  time 
it  would  take  her  days  together  to  tell 
one  story.  Rhoda  was  very  handsome  ; 
her  great,  dark  eyes  would  shine  with 
excitement  as  she  went  on.  For  my 
self,  by  the  time  she  had  finished,  I 
was  usually  dissolved  in  tears  over  the 
tragic  fate  of  her  heroes  and  heroines. 
Lucy  was  golden-haired  and  blue-eyed, 
the  only  one  who  looked  like  our 
mother.  I  was  not  fourteen  when  she 
died  —  I  'm  almost  fifty,  now.  It  may 
seem  strange  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
don't  believe  that  there  has  been  an 
hour  of  any  day  since  her  death  in 
which  I  have  not  thought  of  her  and 
mourned  for  her.  Strange,  is  n't  it, 
that  the  life  and  death  of  a  little  child 
not  three  years  old  could  take  such  a 
hold  on  another  life  ?  I  have  never 
lost  the  consciousness  of  the  presence 
of  that  child. 

"  That  makes  me  think  of  our  ghost 
story.  Almost  every  family  has  a 
ghost  story,  you  know  ?  Ours  has 
more  than  one,  but  the  one  foreshad 
owed  all  the  others." 

"'  Do  tell  it  to  me,"  said  the  friend 
sitting  by  her  bed. 

"  Well,  the  new  house  was  just  fin 
ished,  but  we  had  not  moved  into  it. 
There  had  been  a  violent  shower ; 
father  had  come  home  from  the  field, 
and  everybody  had  come  in  out  of  the 
rain.  I  think  it  was  about  four  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  storm  ceased  and 
the  sun  shone  out.  The  new  house 
stood  on  the  edge  of  a  ravine,  and  the 
sun  was  shining  full  upon  it,  when 
some  one  in  the  family  called  out  and 
asked  how  Rhoda  and  Lucy  came  to 
be  over  in  the  new  house,  and  the  door 
open.  Upon  this  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  rushed  to  the  front  door,  and 
there,  across  the  ravine,  in  the  open 
door  of  the  new  house,  stood  Rhoda 
with  Lucy  in  her  arms.  Some  one 
said,  '  She  must  have  come  from  the 
sugar  camp,  and  has  taken  shelter 
there  with  Lucy  from  the  rain.'  Upon 
this  another  called  out.  'Rhoda!'  but 
she  did  not  answer.  While  we  were 


8 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


gazing  and  talking  and  calling,  Rhoda 
herself  came  down-stairs,  where  she 
had  left  Lucy  fast  asleep,  and  stood 
with  us  while  we  all  saw,  in  the  full 
blaze  of  the  sun,  the  woman  with  the 
child  in  her  arms  slowly  sink,  sink, 
sink  into  the  ground,  until  she  disap 
peared  from  sight.  Then  a  great  si 
lence  fell  upon  us  all.  In  our  hearts, 
we  all  believed  it  to  be  a  warning  of 
sorrow  —  of  what,  we  knew  not.  When 
Rhoda  and  Lucy  both  died,  then  we 
knew.  Rhoda  died  the  next  autumn, 
November  ii;  Lucy  a  month  later, 
December  10,  1833.  Father  went  di 
rectly  over  to  the  house  and  out  into 
the  road,  but  no  human  being,  and  not 
even  a  track,  could  be  seen.  Lucy  has 
been  seen  many  times  since  by  differ 
ent  members  of  the  family,  in  the  same 
house,  always  in  a  red  frock,  like  one 
she  was  very  fond  of  wearing  ;  the  last 
time  by  my  brother  Warren's  little  boy, 
who  had  never  heard  the  story.  He 
came  running  in,  saying  that  he  had 
seen  '  a  little  girl  up-stairs,  in  a  red 
dress.'  He  is  dead  now,  and  such  a 
bright  boy.  Since  the  apparition  in 
the  door,  never  for  one  year  has  our 
family  been  free  from  the  shadow  of 
death.  Ever  since,  some  one  of  us 
has  been  dying."  .... 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  how  much  we 
are  robbed  of  in  this  world  by  just  the 
conditions  of  our  life.  How  much  bet 
ter  work  I  should  have  done,  how 
much  more  success  I  might  have  won, 
if  I  had  had  a  better  opportunity  in  my 
youth.  But  for  the  first  fourteen  years 
of  my  life,  it  seemed  as  if  there  was 
actually  nothing  in  existence  but  work. 
The  whole  family  struggle  was  just  for 
the  right  to  live  free  from  the  curse  of 
debt.  My  father  worked  early  and 
late  ;  my  mother's  work  was  never 
done.  The  mother  of  nine  children, 
with  no  other  help  than  that  of  their 
little  hands,  I  shall  always  feel  that  she 
was  taxed  far  beyond  her  strength,  and 
died  before  her  time.  I  have  never 
felt  myself  to  be  the  same  that  I  was 
before  Rhoda's  death.  Rhoda  and  I 
pined  for  beauty  ;  but  there  was  no 
beauty  about  our  homely  house,  but 
that  which  nature  gave  us.  We  hun 
gered  and  thirsted  for  knowledge  ;  but 
there  were  not  a  dozen  books  on  our 
family  shelf,  not  a  library  within  our 


reach.  There  was  little  time  to  study, 
and  had  there  been  more,  there  was  no 
chance  to  learn  but  in  the  district 
school-house,  down  the  road.  I  never 
went  to  any  other  —  not  very  much  to 
that.  It  has  been  a  long  struggle. 
Now  that  I  can  afford  to  gather  a  few 
beautiful  things  about  me,  it  is  too  late. 
My  leisure  I  must  spend  here  "  (turn 
ing  toward  her  pillow).  "  Do  you 
know  "  (with  a  pathetic  smile)  "  I  seem 
to  myself  like  a  worn-out  old  ship,  laid 
up  from  further  use.  I  may  be  re 
paired  a  little  ;  but  I  '11  never  be  sea 
worthy  again." 

The   friend,   looking   into   her  face, 
saw  the  dark  eyes  drowned  in  tears. 


CHAPTER  II. 
EARLY   STRUGGLES    AND    SUCCESS. 

THE  deaths  of  Rhoda  and  Lucy  Gary 
were  followed  by  the  decline  and  pass 
ing  away  of  their  mother,  who  died 
July  30,  1835.  In  1837  Robert  Gary 
married  again.  His  second  wife  was 
a  widow,  suitable  in  years  and  child 
less.  Had  her  temperament  been  dif 
ferent,  her  heart  must  have  gone  out 
in  tenderness  to  the  family  of  young, 
motherless  girls  toward  whom  she  was 
now  called  to  fill  a  mother's  place. 
The  limitations  of  her  nature  made 
this  impossible.  Such  a  mental  and 
spiritual  organism  as  theirs  she  could 
not  comprehend,  and  with  their  at 
tempted  pursuits  she  had  no  sympa 
thy.  All  time  spent  in  study  she  con 
sidered  wasted. 

Alice,  now  seventeen,  and  Phoebe, 
thirteen,  were  beginning  to  write  clown 
in  uncertain  lines  the  spontaneous  songs 
which  seemed  to  sing  themselves  into 
being  in  their  hearts  and  brains.  A 
hard,  uncultured,  utilitarian  woman,  to 
whom  work  for  work's  sake  was  the 
ultimatum  of  life,  could  not  fail  to  bring 
unhappiness  to  two  such  spirits,  nor  fail 
to  sow  discord  in  a  household  whose 
daily  toil  from  birth  had  been  lightened 
and  brightened  by  an  inborn  idealism, 
and  the  unconscious  presence  of  the 
very  spirit  of  song.  Ada  Canvihan 
says  :  "Alice  kept  busily  at  work  dur 
ing  the  day,  prosecuting  her  studies  at 


EARLY  EDUCATION. 


night.  This  was  a  fruitful  source  of 
dissension  between  herself  and  step 
mother,  who  could  not  believe  that  burn 
ing  candles  for  this  purpose  was  either 
proper  or  profitable,  that  reading  books 
was  better  than  darning  socks,  or  writ 
ing  poems  better  than  making  bread. 
But  the  country  girls,  uncultured  in 
mind  and  rustic  in  manners,  not  need 
ing  to  be  told  the  immense  distance 
which  separated  them  from  the  world 
of  letters  they  longed  to  enter,  would 
not  be  discouraged.  If  they  must  darn 
and  bake,  they  would  also  study  and 
write,  and  at  last  publish  :  if  candles 
were  denied  them,  a  saucer  of  lard  with 
a  bit  of  rag  for  wick  could  and  did 
serve  instead,  and  so,  for  ten  long  years, 
they  studied  and  wrote  and  published 
without  pecuniary  recompense  ;  often 
discouraged  and  despondent,  yet  never 
despairing  ;  lonely  and  grown  over-sen 
sitive,  prone  to  think  themselves  neg 
lected  and  slighted,  yet  hugging  their 
solitude  in  unconscious  superiority ; 
looking  out  to  the  grave-yard  on  the 
near  hill-side  with  a  regret  for  the  past, 
and  over  and  beyond  it  into  the  un 
known  distance  with  hope  for  the  fut 
ure."  Phoebe,  speaking  of  the  Gary 
sisters  as  if  merely  acquaintances, 
says  :  "  They  saw  but  few  books  or 
newspapers.  On  a  small  shelf  of  the 
cottage  lay  all  the  literary  treasures  of 
the  family.  These  consisted  of  a  Bible, 
Hymn  Book,  the  '  History  of  the  Jews,' 
1  Lewis  and  Clarke's  Travels,'  '  Pope's 
Essays,'  and  '  Charlotte  Temple,'  a 
romance  founded  on  fact.  There  might 
have  been  one  or  two  more,  now  forgot 
ten,  and  there  was,  I  know,  a  mutilated 
novel  by  an  unknown  hand,  called  the 
'  Black  Penitents,'  the  mystery  of  whose 
fate  (for  the  closing  pages  of  the  work 
were  gone)  was  a  life-long  regret  to 
Alice."  Robert  and  Elizabeth  Cary 
were  early  converts  to  Universalism, 
and  the  <k  Trumpet,"  says  Phoebe,  "  read 
by  them  from  the  publication  of  its  first 
numbers  till  the  close  of  their  lives, 
was  for  many  years  the  only  paper  seen 
by  Alice,  and  its  Poet's  Corner  the  food 
of  her  fancy,  and  source  of  her  inspi 
ration."  Yet  with  such  ill-selected  and 
scanty  food  for  the  mind,  and  early 
trained  to  be  helpful  in  a  household 
where  great  needs  and  small  resources 
left  little  time  for  anything  but  the 


stern,  practical  part  of  life,  these  chil 
dren  began  very  early  to  see  visions 
and  to  dream  dreams.  "  At  the  age  of 
fifteen  Alice  was  left  motherless,"and, 
in  one  sense,  companionless,  her  yet 
living  sisters  being  too  old  or  too  young 
to  fill  the  place  left  vacant  in  her  life. 
The  only  sins  of  writing  of  which  she 
seemed  to  have  been  guilty  up  to  this 
time  were  occasional  efforts  to  alter  and 
improve  the  poetry  in  her  school  reader, 
and  a  few  pages  of  original  rhymes 
which  broke  the  monotony  of  her  copy 
books.  All  ambition,  and  all  love  of 
the  pursuits  of  life,  seemed  for  a  time 
to  have  died  with  her  beloved  sister. 
Her  walks,  which  were  now  solitary, 
generally  terminated  at  the  little  family 
burial-place,  on  a  green  hill  that  rose  in 
sight  of  home."  All  these  conditions 
and  influences  in  her  life  must  be  con 
sidered  in  measuring  her  success,  or  in 
estimating  the  quality  of  her  work.  One 
of  the  severest  criticisms  passed  on  her 
early  poems  was  that  they  were  full  of 
graves.  Remembering  the  bereaved 
and  lonely  girl  whose  daily  walk  ended 
in  the  grave-yard  on  the  hill-side,  where 
her  mother  and  sisters  slept,  how  could 
her  early  song  escape  the  shadow  of 
death  and  the  vibration  of  sorrow  ? 
With  her,  it  was  the  utterance  of  actuil 
loss,  not  the  morbid  sentimentalism  of 
poetic  youth.  In  after  years,  Phoebe 
often  spoke  of  the  new  keen  sensation 
of  delight  which  she  felt  when,  for  the 
first  time,  she  saw  her  own  verses  in 
print.  "  Oh,  if  they  only  could  look 
like  that  now,"  she  said  to  me  within  a 
year  of  her  death  ;  if  they  only  could 
look  like  that  now,  it  would  be  better 
than  money."  She  was  but  fourteen 
when,  without  consulting  even  Alice, 
she  sent  a  poem  in  secret  to  a  Boston 
newspaper,  and  knew  nothing  of  its  ac 
ceptance  till,  to  her  astonishment,  she 
saw  it  copied  in  a  home  (Cincinnati) 
paper.  She  laughed  and  cried  over  it. 
"  I  did  not  care  any  more  if  I  were 
poor,  or  my  clothes  plain.  Somebody 
cared  enough  for  my  verses  to  print 
them,  and  I  was  happy.  I  looked  with 
compassion  on  my  school-mates.  You 
may  know  more  than  I  do,  I  thought, 
but  you  can't  write  verses  that  are 
printed  in  a  newspaper  ;  but  I  kept  my 
joy  and  triumph  to  myself." 

Meanwhile  Robert  Cary  built  a  new 


IO 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


house  on  the  farm,  to  which  he  re 
moved  with  his  second  wife,  leaving 
Alice  and  Phoebe,  their  two  brothers, 
and  young  sister  Elmina,  to  live  to- 
gether  in  the  old  home.  By  this  time 
newspapers  and  magazines,  with  a  few 
new  books,  including  the  standard  Eng 
lish  poets,  were  added  to  the  cottage 
library,  while  several  clergymen  and 
other  persons  of  culture  coming  into 
the  rural  neighborhood,  brought  new 
society  and  more  congenial  associations 
to  the  sisters.  Alice  had  begun  to  pub 
lish,  and  without  hope  of  present  re 
ward  was  sending  her  verses  through 
the  land  astray,  they  chiefly  finding 
shelter  in  the  periodicals  and  journals 
of  the  Universalist  Church,  with  which 
she  was  most  familiar,  and  in  the  daily 
and  weekly  journals  of  Cincinnati.  The 
Boston  "  Ladies'  Repository,"  the  "  La 
dies'  Repository"  of  Cincinnati,  and 
"  Graham's  Magazine,"  were  among  the 
leading  magazines  which  accepted  and 
published  her  earlier  verses.  Phcebe 
says  :  "  Alice's  first  literary  adventure 
appeared  in  the  'Sentinel'  (now  'Star 
of  the  West'),  published  in  Cincinnati. 
It  was  entitled  '  The  Child  of  Sorrow,' 
and  was  written  in  her  eighteenth  year. 
The  '  Star,'  with  the  exception  of  an 
occasional  contribution  to  some  ot  the 
dailies  of  the  same  city,  was  for  many 
years  her  only  medium  of  publication. 
After  the  establishing  of  the  '  National 
Era  '  at  Washington  in  1847,  she  wrote 
poetry  regularly  for  its  columns,  and 
here  she  first  tried  her  hand  at  prose, 
in  a  series  of  stories  under  a  fictitious 
name.  From  Dr.  Bailey  of  the  '  Era  ' 
she  received  the  first  money  ever  earned 
by  her  pen —  ten  dollars  sent  as  a  gra 
tuity,  when  she  had  written  for  him 
some  months.  She  afterwards  made  a 
regular  engagement  to  furnish  him  with 
contributions  to  his  paper  for  a  small 
stipulated  sum."  Even  now  the  real 
note  of  a  natural  singer  will  penetrate 
through  all  the  noise  of  our  day,  and 
arrest  the  step  and  fix  the  ear  of  many 
a  pilgrim  amid  the  multitude.  This 
was  far  more  strikingly  the  fact  in 
1850-51.  Poets,  so  called,  then  were 
not  so  plenty  as  now  ;  the  congregation 
of  singers  so  much  smaller,  any  new 
voice  holding  in  its  compass  one  sweet 
note  was  heard  and  recognized  at 
once.  There  had  come  a  lull  in  the 


national  struggles.  The  tremendous 
events  which  have  absorbed  the  emo 
tion  and  consumed  the  energies  of  the 
nation  for  the  last  decade  were  only 
just  beginning  to  show  their  first  faint 
portents.  Men  of  letters  were  at  lei 
sure,  and  ready  to  listen  to  any  new 
voice  in  literature.  Indeed,  they  were 
anxious  and  eager  to  see  take  form  and 
substance  in  this  country  an  American 
literature  which  should  be  acknowl 
edged  and  honored  abroad.  Judging 
by  the  books  of  American  authors  which 
he  has  left  behind,  no  one  at  that  time 
could  have  been  quite  so  much  on  the 
alert  for  new  American  poets  and  poet 
esses  as  Dr.  Rufus  W.  Griswold.  He 
generously  set  amid  his  "American 
Female  Writers  "  names  which  perished 
like  morning-glories,  after  their  first 
outburst  of  song.  He  could  not  fail, 
then,  to  hear  with  delight  those  sweet 
strains  of  untutored  music  breaking 
from  that  valley  of  the  West,  heard 
now  across  all  the  land.  The  ballads 
and  lyrics  written  by  that  saucer  of  lard 
with  its  rag  flame,  in  the  hours  when 
others  slept,  were  bringing  back  at  last 
true  echoes  and  sympathetic  responses 
from  kindred  souls,  throbbing  out  in 
the  great  world  of  which  as  yet  these 
young  singers  knew  nothing.  Alice's 
"Pictures  of  Memory"  had  already 
been  pronounced  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
to  be  one  of  the  most  musically  perfect 
lyrics  in  the  English  language.  The 
names  of  Alice  and  Phcebe  Cary  in  the 
corners  of  newspapers  and  magazines, 
with  the  songs  which  followed,  had 
fixed  the  attention  and  won  the  affec 
tion  of  some  of  the  best  minds  and 
hearts  in  the  land.  Men  of  letters, 
among  them  John  G.  Whittier.  had  writ 
ten  the  sisters  words  of  appreciation 
and  encouragement.  In  1849,  the  ed 
itor  of  the  "  Tribune,"  Horace  Greeley, 
visited  them  in  their  own  home,  and 
thus  speaks  of  the  interview  :  "  I  found 
them,  on  my  first  visit  to  Cincinnati, 
early  in  the  summer  of  1849;  an^  tne 
afternoon  spent  in  their  tidy  cottage  on 
'Walnut  Hills,'  seven  miles  out  of  the 
city,  in  the  company  of  congenial  spir 
its,  since  departed,  is  among  the  green 
est  oases  in  my  recollection  of  scenes 
and  events  long  past." 

In  May,  1849,  Phoebe  writes  :  "Alice 
and  I  have  been  very  busy  collecting 


THE  SINGER." 


I  I 


and  revising  all  our  published  poems, 
to  send  to  New  York.  Rev.  R.  W. 
Griswold,  quite  a  noted  author,  is  go 
ing  to  publish  them  for  us  this  summer, 
and  we  are  to  receive  for  them  a  hun 
dred  dollars.  I  don't  know  as  I  feel 
better  or  worse,  as  I  don't  think  it  will 
do  us  much  good,  or  any  one  else. 
This  little  volume,  entitled  "  Poems  of 
Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,"  published  by 
Moss  and  Brother  of  Philadelphia, 
was  the  first  condensed  result  of  their 
twelve  years  of  study,  privation,  aspi 
ration,  labor,  sorrow,  and  youth. 

To  the  year  1850,  Alice  and  Phoebe 
had  never  met  any  of  their  Eastern 
friends  save  Mr.  Greeley.  But  after 
the  publication  of  their  little  book,  they 
went  forth  together  to  the  land  of  prom 
ise,  and  beheld  face  to  face,  for  the  first 
time,  the  sympathetic  souls  who  had 
sent  them  so  many  words  of  encour 
agement  and  praise.  They  went  first 
to  New  York,  from  thence  to  Boston, 
and  from  Boston  these  women  min 
strels  took  their  way  to  Amesbury,  and 
all  unknown,  save  by  name,  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  poet  Whittier.  Mr. 
Whittier  has  commemorated  that  visit 
by  his  touching  poem  of  "  The  Singer," 
published  after  the  death  of  Alice. 


Years  since  (hut  names  to  me  before), 
Two  sisters  sought  at  eve  my  door  ; 
Two  song-birds  wandering  from  their  nest, 
A  gray  old  farm-house  in  the  West. 

Timid  and  young,  the  elder  had 
Even  then  a  smile  too  sweetly  sad  ; 
The  crown  of  pain  that  all  must  wear 
Too  early  pressed  her  midnight  hair. 

Yet,  ere  the  summer  eve  grew  long, 
Her  modest  lips  were  sweet  with  song, 
A  memory  haunted  all  her  words 
Of  clover-fields  and  singing-birds. 

Her  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 
The  broad  horizons  of  the  West ; 
Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers  ;  the 

gold 
Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled. 

Fore-doomed  to  song  she  seemed  to  me  ; 

I  queried  not  with  destiny  : 

I  knew  the  trial  and  the  need, 

Yet  all  the  more,  I  said,  God  speed  ! 

What  could  I  other  than  I  did  ? 
Could  I  a  singing-bird  forbid  ? 


Deny  the  wind-stirred  leaf  ?     Rebuke 
The  music  of  the  forest  brook  ? 

She  went  with  morning  from  my  door  ; 
But  left  me  richer  than  before  : 
Thenceforth  I  knew  her  voice  of  cheer, 
The  welcome  of  her  partial  ear. 

Years  passed  ;   through   all  the   land   her 

name 

A  pleasant  household  word  became  ; 
All  felt  behind  the  singer  stood 
A  sweet  and  gracious  womanhood. 

Her  life  was  earnest  work,  not  play  ; 
Her  tired  feet  climbed  a  weary  way ; 
And  even  through  her  lightest  strain 
We  heard  an  undertone  of  pain. 

Unseen  of  her,  her  fair  fame  grew, 
The  good  she  did  she  rarely  knew, 
Unguessed  of  her  in  life  the  love 
That  rained  its  tears  her  grave  above. 

The  friendship  thus  sympathetically 
begun  between  these  tender,  upright 
souls  never  waned  while  human  life 
endured.  To  their  last  hour,  Alice  and 
Phcebe  cherished  for  this  great  poet 
and  good  man  the  affection  and  devo 
tion  of  sisters.  Of  this  first  visit  Al 
ice  wrote  :  "  I  like  him  very  much,  and 
was  sorry  to  say  good-by."  After  an 
absence  of  three  months  the  sisters  re 
turned  to  the  West,  which  was  never 
more  to  be  their  home. 

In  November  of  the  same  year 
(1850),  Alice  Gary,  broken  in  health, 
sad  in  spirit,  with  little  money,  but 
with  a  will  which  no  difficulty  could 
daunt,  an  energy  and  patience  which 
no  pain  or  sorrow  could  overcome, 
started  alone  to  seek  her  fortune,  and 
to  make  for  herself  a  place  and  home 
in  the  city  of  New  York.  Referring  to 
this  the  year  before  her  death,  she 
said :  "  Ignorance  stood  me  in  the 
stead  of  courage.  Had  I  known  the 
great  world  as  I  have  learned  it  since, 
I  should  not  have  dared  ;  but  I  did  n't. 
Thus  I  came." 

The  intellectual  life  of  neither  man 
nor  woman  can  be  justly  judged  with 
out  a  knowledge  of  the  conditions 
which  impelled  that  life  and  gave  to 
it  shape  and  substance.  Alice  Gary 
felt  within  her  soul  the  divine  impulse 
of  genius,  but  hers  was  essentially  a 
feminine  soul,  shy,  loving,  full  of  long 
ings  for  home,  overburdened  with  ten- 


12 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


derness,  capable  of  an  unselfish,  life 
long  devotion  to  one.  Whatever  her 
mental  or  spiritual  gifts,  no  mere  am 
bition  could  ever  have  borne  such  a 
woman  out  into  the  world  to  seek  and 
to  make  her  fortune  alone.  Had  Alice 
Gary  married  the  man  whom  she  then 
loved,  she  would  never  have  come  to 
New  York  at  all,  to  coin  the  rare  gifts 
of  her  brain  and  soul  into  money  for 
shelter  and  bread.  Business  interests 
had  brought  into  her  western  neighbor 
hood  a  man  at  that  time  much  her  su 
perior  in  years,  culture,  and  fortune. 
Naturally  he  sought  the  society  of  a 
young,  lovely  woman  so  superior  to 
her  surroundings  and  associations.  To 
Alice  he  was  the  man  of  men.  It  is 
doubtful  if  the  most  richly  endowed 
man  of  the  world  whom  she  met  after 
wards  in  her  larger  sphere,  ever  wore 
to  her  the  splendor  of  manhood  which 
invested  this  king  of  her  youth.  Alice 
Gary  loved  this  man,  and  in  the  pro- 
foundest  sense  she  never  loved  an 
other.  A  proud  and  prosperous  family 
brought  all  their  pride  and  power  to 
bear  on  a  son,  to  prevent  his  marrying 
a  girl  to  them  uneducated,  rustic,  and 
poor.  u  I  waited  for  one  who  never 
came  back,"  she  said.  "  Yet  I  believed 
he  would  come,  till  I  read  in  a  paper  his 
marriage  to  another.  Can  you  think 
what  life  would  be  —  loving  one,  wait 
ing  for  one  who  would  never  come  !  " 

He  did  come  at  last.  His  wife  had 
died.  Alice  was  dying.  The  gray- 
haired  man  sat  down  beside  the  gray- 
haired  woman  Life  had  dealt  pros 
perously  with  him,  as  is  its  wont  with 
men.  Suffering  and  death  had  taken 
all  from  her  save  the  lustre  of  her  won 
drous  eyes.  From  her  wan  and  wasted 
face  they  shone  upon  him  full  of  ten 
derness  and  youth.  Thus  they  met 
with  life  behind  them  —  they  who 
parted  plighted  lovers  when  life  was 
young.  He  was  the  man  whom  she 
forgave  for  her  blighted  and  weary  life, 
with  a  smile  of  parting  as  divine  as  ever 
lit  the  face  of  woman." 

Alice  Gary's  was  no  weak  nature. 
All  its  fine  feminine  gold  was  set  in  a 
will  of  iron.  All  its  deep  wells  of  ten 
derness  were  walled  and  held  in  by  jus 
tice,  common  sense,  and  unyielding  in 
tegrity.  She  outlived  that  sorrowful 
youth  to  speak  of  it  with  pity,  to  drop 


a  silent  tear  upon  its  memory  as  if  it 
were  the  youth  of  another  person.  She 
lived  to  become  preeminently  one  of 
the  world's  workers.  She  had  many 
and  flattering  offers  of  marriage,  but 
she  never  entered  into  a  second  en 
gagement.  With  all  her  capacity  for 
affection,  hers  was  an  eclectic  and  soli 
tary  soul.  He  who  by  the  very  patent 
of  his  nature  was  more  to  her  than  any 
other  being  could  be,  passed  out  from 
her  life,  but  no  other  one  ever  took  his 
place. 

It  was  in  this  desolat:on  of  her  youth 
that  Alice  Gary  resolved  to  go  to  New 
York,  and  make  a  home  and  life-work 
for  herself.  Many  sympathetic  souls 
had  sent  back  answering  echoes  to  her 
songs.  We  may  believe  that  to  her 
lonely  heart  the  voice  of  human  praise 
was  sweet.  If  it  could  not  recall  the 
first  promise  of  her  morning,  at  least 
it  foretold  that  hers  would  be  a  busy, 
workful,  and  successful  day.  It  can 
not  be  said  that  she  found  herself  alone 
in  New  York,  for,  from  the  first,  her 
genius  and  true  womanliness  gathered 
around  her  a  small  circle  of  devoted 
friends.  Women  loved  her, 

"  And  men,  who  toiled  in  storm  and  sun, 
Found  her  their  meet  companion." 

In  the  spring  of  1851,  she  wrote  to 
her  sisters  to  join  her,  and  in  April, 
Phoebe  and  her  lovely  young  sister, 
then  scarcely  twenty  years  of  "age,  left 
Cincinnati  and  came  to  Alice.  Of  this 
departure  of  the  three  from  the  home 
nest,  Phoebe  says  :  "Without  advice  or 
counsel  of  any  but  themselves,  they  re 
solved  to  come  to  New  York,  and  after 
the  manner  of  children  in  the  story 
book,  seek  their  fortune.  Many  sad 
and  trying  changes  had  come  to  the 
family,  and  home  was  not  what  it  had 
been.  They  had  comparative  youth, 
though  they  were  much  older  in  years 
than  in  experience  and  knowledge  of 
the  world  ;  they  had  pleasant  visions  of 
a  home  and  name  that  might  be  earned 
by  literary  labor,  and  so  the  next  spring 
the  bold  venture  was  made. 

"  Living  in  a  very  economical  and 
humble  way,  writing  for  whatever  pa 
pers  would  accept  their  contributions, 
and  taking  any  remuneration  that  was 
offered,  however. small,  they  did  from 
the  first  somehow  manage  to  live  with- 


THE  SUPPORT  THAT  POETRY  GIVES. 


out  debt,  and  with  little  obligation." 
To  appreciate  more  perfectly  the  in 
dustry  and  frugality  which  enabled 
them  to  do  this,  we  must  know  how 
much  smaller,  at  that  time,  was  the  re 
ward  for  all  literary  labor,  than  it  is 
now.  Speaking  of  their  coming  to 
make  New  York  their  home,  in  his 
sketch  of  the  sisters  in  the  "  Eminent 
Women  of  the  Age,"  Horace  Greeley 
says  :  — 

"  I  do  not  know  at  whose  suggestion 
they  resolved  to  migrate  to  this  city, 
and  attempt  to  live  here  by  literary  la 
bor  ;  it  surely  was  not  mine.  If  my 
judgment  was  ever  invoked,  I  am  sure 
I  must  have  responded  that  the  hazard 
seemed  to  me  too  great,  the  induce 
ments  inadequate.  And,  before  you 
dissent  from  this  opinion,  be  pleased 
to  remember  that  we  had  then  scarcely 
any  periodical  literature  worthy  of  the 
name  outside  of  the  political  and  com 
mercial  journals.  I  doubt  that  so  much 
money  was  paid,  in  the  aggregate,  for 
contributions  to  all  the  magazines  and 
weeklies  issued  from  this  city,  as  were 
paid  in  1870  by  the  'Ledger'  alone. 
Our  magnificent  system  of  dissemina 
tion  by  means  of  railroad  trains  and 
news  companies  was  then  in  its  infan 
cy  ;  when  I  started  '  The  New  Yorker,' 
fifteen  years  earlier,  it  had  no  exist 
ence.  It  impeaches  neither  the  dis 
crimination,  the  justice,  nor  the  enter 
prise,  of  the  publishers  of  1850,  to  say 
that  they  hardly  paid  for  contributions 
a  tithe  of  the  prices  now  freely  accorded 
to  favorite  writers  ;  they  paid  what  they 
could.  I  remember  seeing  Longfellow's 
grand  'Endymion'  received  in  manu 
script  at  the  office  of  a  popular  and 
successful  weekly,  which  paid  fifteen 
dollars  for  it  ;  a  hundred  such  would 
now  be  quickly  taken  at  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  each,  and  the  purchas 
ers  would  look  anxiously  about  them 
for  more. 

"  Alice  and  Phoebe  came  among  us, 
I  have  said,  in  1850.  They  hired  two 
or  three  modest  rooms,  in  an  unfash 
ionable  neighborhood,  and  set  to  work 
resolutely  to  earn  a  living  by  the  pen." 

The  secret  of  the  rare  material  suc 
cess  which  attended  them  from  the  be 
ginning  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
from  the  first  they  began  to  make  a 
home  :  also  in  the  fact  that  they  pos 


sessed  every  attribute  of  character  and 
habit  necessary  to  the  making  of  one. 
They  had  an  unfeigned  horror  of 
"  boarding."  Any  friend  of  theirs  ever 
compelled  to  stay  in  a  boarding-house 
was  sure  of  an  extra  portion  of  their 
commiseration  and  sympathy.  A  home 
they  must  have,  albeit  it  was  up  two 
flights  of  stairs.  To  the  maintenance 
of  this  home  they  brought  industry, 
frugality,  and  a  hatred  of  debt.  If  they 
had  money  but  to  pay  for  a  crust,  then 
a  crust  must  suffice.  With  their  inflexi 
ble  integrity  they  believed  that  they  had 
no  right  to  more,  till  they  had  money 
to  pay  for  that  more.  Thus  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  they  always  lived 
within  their  income.  They  never  wore 
or  had  anything  better  than  they  could 
afford.  With  true  feminine  instinct, 
they  made  their  little  "flat"  take  on  at 
once  the  cosiest  look  of  home.  A  man- 
genius  seeking  the  city,  as  they  did,  of 
course  would  have  taken  refuge  in  a 
boarding-house  attic,  and  "  enjoyed 
himself"  in  writing  poems  and  leaders 
amid  dirt  and  forlornity.  Net  so  these 
women-poets.  I  have  heard  Alice  tell 
how  she  papered  one  room  with  her  own 
hands,  and  Phoebe  how  she  painted  the 
doors,  framed  the  pictures,  and  "bright 
ened  up  "  things  generally.  Thus  from 
the  first  they  had  a  home,  and  by  the 
very  magnetism  that  made  it  bright, 
cheery,  in  truth  a  home,  they  drew 
around  them  friends  who  were  their 
friends  no  less  till  they  breathed  their 
last  sigh.  One  of  these  was  Mr.  Gree 
ley.  He  always  cherished  for  these  sis 
ters  three  the  respect  and  affection 
which  every  true  man  instinctively  feels 
for  the  true  women  who  have  their  be 
ing  within  the  circle  of  his  life.  In  their 
friendship  one  religious  faith,  kindred 
pursuits,  mutual  friends,  and  long  asso 
ciation  strengthened  and  cemented  the 
fraternal  bond  to  the  last.  Mr.  Greeley 
himself  thus  refers  to  their  early  tea- 
parties. 

"  Being  already  an  acquaintance,  I 
called  on  the  sisters  soon  after  they 
had  set  up  their  household  gods  among 
us,  and  met  them  at  intervals  there 
after  at  their  home  or  at  the  houses  of 
mutual  friends.  Their  parlor  was  not 
so  large  as  some  others,  but  quite  as 
neat  and  cheerful  ;  and  the  few  liter 
ary  persons,  or  artists,  who  occasion- 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND  PHCEBE  GARY. 


ally  met  at  their  informal  invitation,  to 
discuss  with  them  a  cup  of  tea  and 
the  newest  books,  poems,  and  events, 
might  have  found  many  more  preten 
tious,  but  few  more  enjoyable  gather 
ings.  I  have  a  dim  recollection  that 
the  first  of  these  little  tea-parties  was 
held  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  in  one  of 
the  less  fashionable  sections  of  the 
city  ;  but  good  things  were  said  there 
that  I  recall  with  pleasure  yet  ;  while 
of  some  of  the  company,  on  whom  I 
have  not  since  set  eyes,  I  cherish  a 
pleasant  and  grateful  remembrance. 
As  their  circumstances  gradually, 
though  slowly  improved,  by  dint  of 
diligent  industry  and  judicious  econ 
omy,  they  occupied  more  eligible  quar 
ters  ;  and  the  modest  dwelling  they 
have  for  some  years  owned  and  im 
proved,  in  the  very  heart  of  this  em 
porium,  has  long  been  known  to  the 
literary  guild,  as  combining  one  of  the 
best  private  libraries  with  the  sunniest 
drawing-room  (even  by  gas-light)  to  be 
found  between  King's  Bridge  and  the 
Battery." 

Thus  began  in  1850-51  the  life  and 
work  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary  in  New 
York.  The  next  year  saw  the  coming 
out  of  Alice's  first  series  of  "  Clover- 
nook  Papers."  They  were  full  of  the 
freshness  and  fragrance  of  her  native 
fields  ;  full  of  simple,  original,  graphic 
pictures  of  the  country  life,  and  the 
men  and  women  whom  she  knew  best ; 
full  of  the  exquisite  touches  of  a  spon 
taneous,  child-like  genius,  and  they 
were  gathered  up  as  eagerly  by  the 
public  as  the  children  gather  wild 
flowers.  Their  very  simplicity  and 
freshness  won  all  hearts.  They  sold 
largely  in  this  country  and  in  Great 
Britain.  English  critics  bestowed  on 
them  the  highest  and  most  discrimi 
nating  praise,  as  pure  products  of 
American  life  and  genius,  while  the 
press  of  this  country  universally  ac 
knowledged  their  delicious  simplicity 
and  originality.  Alice  published  a 
second  series  'in  1853,  with  unabated 
success,  while  in  1854,  Ticknor  and 
Fields  published  the  "  Clovernook 
Children,"  which  were  as  popular  with 
younger  readers,  as  the  "  Papers  "  had 
been  with  their  elders.  In  1853,  "  Lyra 
and  Other  Poems,  by  Alice  Cary," 
were  published  by  Redfield.  This  vol 


ume  called  out  some  severe  criticisms 
on  the  uniform  sadness  of  its  tone  ; 
one  especially  in  '-Putnam's  Monthly," 
which  caused  Alice  much  pain.  Nev 
ertheless  it  was  a  successful  book,  and 
was  brought  out  a  second  time  com 
plete,  with  the  addition  of  "The 
Maiden  of  Tlascala,"  a  narrative  poem 
of  seventy-two  pages,  by  Ticknor  and 
Fields,  in  1855.  Alice's  first  novel, 
"  Hagar,  a  Story  of  To-Day,"  was 
written  for  and  appeared  in  the  "  Cin 
cinnati  Commercial,"  and  was  after 
wards  brought  out  by  Redfield  in  1852. 
"  Married,  Not  Mated,"  appeared  in 
1856.  "Pictures  of  Country  Life,  by 
Alice  Cary,"  were  published  by  Derby 
and  Jackson  in  1859.  This  book  re 
produced  much  of  the  freshness,  the 
exquisite  grace  and  naturalness,  of  her 
"  Clovernook  Papers."  She  was-  free 
on  her  native  heath,  when  she  painted 
rural  scenery  and  rural  life.  These 
Papers  were  translated  into  French  in 
Paris,  and  "  The  Literary  Gazette " 
(London),  which  is  not  accustomed  to 
flatter  American  authors,  said  :  "Every 
tale  in  this  book  might  be  selected  as 
evidence  of  some  new  beauty  or  un 
hackneyed  grace.  There  is  nothing 
feeble,  nothing  vulgar,  and,  above  all, 
nothing  unnatural  or  melodramatic.  To 
the  analytical  subtlety  and  marvelous 
naturalness  of  the  French  school  of 
romance  she  has  added  the  purity  and 
idealization  of  the  home  affections  and 
home  life  belonging  to  the  English, 
giving  to  both  the  American  richness 
of  color  and  vigor  of  outline,  and  her 
own  individual  power  and  loveliness." 

"  Lyrics  and  Hymns,"  with  portrait, 
beautifully  bound  and  illustrated,  which 
still  remain  the  standard  selection  of 
her  poems,  were  issued  by  Hurd  and 
Houghton,  in  1866.  In  186-,  "The 
Lover's  Diary,"  in  exquisite  form,  and 
"  Snow  Berries,  A  Book  for  Young 
Folks,"  were  bought  by  Ticknor  and 
Fields.  The  same  year  a  novel,  "  The 
Bishop's  Son,"  which  first  appeared  in 
the  "  Springfield  (Mass.)  Republican," 
was  published  by  Carleton,  New  York. 
"The  Born  Thrall,"  a  novel  in  which 
Alice  hoped  to  embody  her  deepest 
thoughts  and  maturest  convictions  con 
cerning  the  sorrows  and  wrongs  of 
woman,  was  interrupted  by  her  last 
sickness,  while  passing  thro.ugh  the 


LITERARY  HABITS. 


"  Revolution,"  and  never  finished.  She 
left,  beside,  a  completed  novel  in  man 
uscript,  not  yet  published.  Thus,  be 
side  writing  constantly  fur  "  Harper's 
Magazine,"  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly," 
"  Riverside  Magazine,"  "  New  York 
Ledger,"  "  New  York  Weekly,"  "  New 
York  Independent,"  "Packard's  Month 
ly,"  and  chance  periodicals  innumera 
ble,  which  entreated  her  name  for  their 
pages,  the  active  brain  and  soul  of 
Alice  Gary  in  twenty  years  produced 
eleven  volumes,  every  word  and 
thought  of  which  was  wrought  from 
her  own  being,  and  every  line  of  which 
was  written  by  her  own  hand.  In  the 
same  number  of  years,  Phoebe,  beside 
aiding  in  the  editing  of  several  books, 
the  most  important  of  which  was 
"  Hymns  for  All  Christians,"  pub 
lished  by  Hurd  and  Houghton  in  1869, 
brought  out  "  Poems  and  Parodies," 
published  by  Ticknor  and  Fields,  1854, 
and  "  Poems  of  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Love,"  issued  by  Hurd  and  Houghton 
in  1868.  Beside,  Alice  and  Phoebe 
left,  at  their  death,  poems  enough  un- 
collected  to  give  each  name  two  added 
volumes,  one  of  each  a  book  of  Child- 
Poems.  The  disparity  in  the  actual 
intellectual  product  of  the  two  sisters, 
in  the  same  number  of  years,  is  very 
striking.  It  is  the  result,  not  so  much 
of  mental  inequality,  as  of  the  compel 
ling  will,  energy,  industry,  and  the  pa 
tience  of  labor  of  the  elder  sister. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THEIR   HOME.  —  HABITS   OF    LIFE   AND 
OF   LABOR.  — THE  SUMMER   OF   1869. 

BEFORE  1856,  Alice  and  Phoebe  had 
removed  to  the  pretty  house  in  Twen 
tieth  Street,  which  was  destined  to  be 
their  last  earthly  home.  Within  a 
short  time  Alice  bought  this  house, 
and  was  its  sole  owner  at  the  time  of 
her  death.  An  English  writer  has 
said  :  "  Single  women  can  do  little 
to  form  a  circle  ;  they  can  but  adorn 
one  when  found."  This  certainly  was 
never  true  of  the  two  single  women 
whose  earthly  days  we  are  tracing. 
From  the  beginning,  the  house  in 
Twentieth  Street  became  the  centre 


of  one  of  the  choicest  and  most  cos 
mopolitan  circles  in  New  York.  The 
two  sisters  drew  about  them  not  only 
the  best,  but  the  most  genial  minds. 
True  men  and  women  equally  found 
in  each,  companion,  counselor,  and 
friend.  They  met  every  true  woman 
that  came  to  them  with  'sympathy  and 
tenderness,  feeling  that  they  shared 
with  her  all  the  mutual  toils  and  sor 
rows  of  womanhood.  They  met  every 
true  man.  as  brother,  with  an  open, 
honest,  believing  gaze.  Intensely  in 
terested  in  all  great  public  questions, 
loving  their  country,  devoted  to  it,  de 
voted  to  everything  good  and  true ; 
alive  to  everything  of  interest  in  poli 
tics,  religion,  literature,  and  society ; 
the  one  pensive  and  tender,  the  other 
witty  and  gay,  men  of  refinement, 
culture,  and  heart  found  in  them  the 
most  delightful  companions.  Beside 
(which  was  much),  no  man  welcome, 
was  afraid  to  go  to  their  house.  Inde 
pendent  in  their  industry  and  resources, 
they  asked  few  favors.  They  had 
no  ''designs,"  even  the  most  harmless, 
on  any  living  man.  Men  the  most 
marriageable,  or  unmarriageable,  could 
visit  the  Carys  without  fear  or  ques 
tion.  The  atmosphere  of  the  house 
was  transparent  as  the  sunshine. 
They  loved  women,  they  delighted  in 
the  society  of  agreeable  men,  and  fear 
lessly  said  so.  The  weekly  refresh 
ment  of  the  house  was  hospitality,  its 
daily  habit,  labor.  I  have  never  known 
any  other  woman,  so  systematically  and 
persistently  industrious  as  Alice  Gary. 
Hers  was  truly  the  genius  of  patience. 
No  obstacle  ever  daunted  it,  no  pain 
ever  stilled  it,  no  weariness  ever  over 
came  it,  till  the  last  weariness  of  death. 
As  Phoebe  said,  "  The  pen  literally  fell 
from  her  hand  at  last,"  and  only  then, 
because  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  which  she  had  already  entered, 
she  could  no  longer  see  to  trace  the 
trembling,  uncertain  lines.  But  few 
men  or  women  could  look  back  upon 
fifty  years  of  more  persistent  industry. 
I  doubt  if  she  ever  kept  a  diary,  or 
wrote  down  a  rule  for  her  life.  She 
did  not  need  to  do  so  ;  her  life  itself 
was  the  rule.  There  was  a  beautiful, 
yet  touching  uniformity  in  her  days. 
Her  pleasure  was  her  labor.  Of  rest, 
recreation,  amusement,  as  other  women 


i6 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND  PUCE  BE   GARY. 


sought  these,  she  knew  almost  nothing. 
Her  rest  and  recreation  were  the  in 
tervals  from  pain,  in  which  she  could 
labor.  It  was  not  always  the  labor  of 
writing.  No,  sometimes  it  was  mak 
ing  a  cap,  or  trimming  a  bonnet,  or 
rummaging  to  the  depths  of  feminine 
boxes  ;  yet  no  less  it  was  work  of 
some  sort,  never  play.  The  only  hour 
of  rest  any  day  brought,  was  the  hour 
after  dinner,  the  twilight  hour,  when 
one  sister  always  came  to  the  other's 
room,  and  with  folded  hands  and  low 
voices  they  talked  over,  almost  always, 
the  past,  the  friends  loved,  scattered, 
or  gone  before. 

The  morning  might  be  for  mirth,  but 
the  evening  belonged  to  memory.  All 
Alice's  personal  surroundings  were 
dainty  and  womanly.  It  was  no  dreary 
den,  in  which  she  thought  and  wrought. 
It  was  a  sunny  room  over  the  library, 
running  the  depth  of  the  house,  with 
windows  at  both  ends.  A  carpet  of 
woody  tints,  relieved  with  scarlet  flow 
ers,  covered  the  floor.  On  the  pale 
walls,  tinted  a  delicate  green,  hung 
pictures,  all  of  which  had  to  her  some 
personal  association.  Over  the  mantel 
hung  an  oil  painting,  called  "  Early 
Sorrow,"  the  picture  of  a  poor,  wind- 
beaten  young  girl,  her  yellow  hair 
blown  about  her  face,  and  the  rain  of 
sorrow  in  her  eyes,  painted  by  a  strug 
gling,  unfortunate  artist,  whom  Alice 
had  done  more  to  help  and  encourage, 
than  all  other  persons  in  the  world. 

Autumn  leaves  and  sea-mosses  im 
prisoned  in  frames,  with  rich  Bohemian 
vases,  adorned  the  black  marble  mantel. 
Beside  the  back  window,  within  the  al 
cove  for  which  it  had  been  expressly 
made,  stood  the  bed,  her  couch  of  suf 
fering  and  musing,  and  on  which  she 
died.  The  bedstead  was  of  rosewood 
traced  with  a  band  of  coral,  and  set 
with  arabesques  of  gilt  ;  its  white  cov 
erlet  and  pillow-cases  edged  with  deli 
cate  lace.  Above  it  hung  an  exquisite 
engraving  of  Cupid,  the  gift  of  Mrs. 
Greeley,  brought  by  her  from  Paris. 
At  the  foot  of  the  bed  hung  a  colored 
engraving  of  Rosa  Bonheur's  "  Oxen," 
a  farmer  ploughing  down  the  furrows 
of  a  rolling  field.  "  It  rests  me,"  she 
would  say  ;  "  I  look  at  it,  and  live  over 
my  youth."  Often  in  the  afternoon, 
while  taking  her  half  hour's  rest  from 


work,  as  she  leaned  back  among  the 
pillows,  the  dark'  eyes  were  lifted  and 
fixed  upon  this  picture.  In  the  winter, 
curtains  of  fawn-colored  satin,  edged 
and  tasseled  with  soft  red,  shaded  this 
alcove  from  the  front  room.  The  front 
windows  were  hung  with  the  same. 
Between  them,  a  mirror  reached  from 
floor  to  ceiling. 

Beside  one  of  these  windows  stood 
Alice's  desk.  It  was  of  rosewood, 
finely  finished  and  commodious,  a  bu 
reau,  desk,  and  book-case  combined. 
The  drawers  below  were  the  recepta 
cle  of  her  beloved  India  shawls,  for 
which  she  had  the  same  love  that  some 
Avomen  have  for  diamonds,  and  others 
for  rare  paintings.  The  drawer  of  her 
desk  contained  her  manuscript  papers  ; 
the  shelves  above,  the  books  that  she 
was  reading,  and  her  books  of  refer 
ence  ;  while  above  all  hung  a  favorite 
landscape  in  water-colors.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  mantel-piece  stood 
corresponding  bureau  and  shelves, 
filled  with  books.  Here  were  copies 
of  her  own  and  Phcebe's  works,  which 
never  appeared  in  the  library  or  draw 
ing-room  below.  Above  these  book 
shelves,  hung  an  autumn  landscape. 
On  one  side  of  the  alcove  there  was 
an  engraving  of  Correggio's  u  Christ ;  " 
on  the  other,  a  copy  of '"  The  Hugue 
not  Lovers."  Beside  the  hall  door,  op 
posite  her  desk,  there  hung  a  portrait 
in  oil  of  their  father,  by  the  hand  which 
painted  "  Early  Sorrow  ;  "  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door  there  was  at  one  time 
a  portrait  of  Phoebe.  Easy  chairs  and 
foot-stools  completed  the  furniture  of 
this  room,  in  which  Alice  Gary  lived 
for  fifteen  years,  the  room  in  which  she 
slowly  and  sadly  relinquished  life,  and 
in  which  at  last  she  died. 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  hall  was 
a  room  which  corresponded  exac'ly 
with  that  of  Alice,  the  room  which 
had  been  Elmina's,  in  which  she  died, 
and  which  from  her  death  was  "  Phce 
be's  room."  Rich  purple  curtains  used 
to  hang  from  the  alcove,  shading  the 
face  of  the  lovely  sufferer,  and  curtains 
of  the  same  hue  draped  the  windows. 
But  Phoebe  eschewed  all  draperies, 
and,  summer  or  winter,  nothing  denser 
than  white  shades  and  the  thinnest  of 
lace  curtains  hung  between  her  and  the 
strongest  sunshine.  A  bright  red  car- 


DAILY  HABITS. 


pet,  relieved  by  small  medallions,  cov 
ered  the  floor.  Over  the  mantel-piece 
for  a  long  time  hung  a  superb  copy  of 
"The  Huguenot  Lovers,"  in  a  gilt 
frame.  This  was  replaced  at  last  by  a 
copy  of  Turner,  in  oil,  a  resplendent 
Venetian  scene.  Beside  the  alcove 
hung  the  chromo  of  Whittier's  u  Bare 
foot  Boy,"  which  was  a  great  favorite 
with  Phoebe,  while  clusters  of  flowers, 
in  lithograph  and  water-colors,  added 
to  the  bright-cheerfulness  of  the  room. 
Between  the  windows  was  a  full  length 
mirror  ;  on  one  side  of  the  room  was 
Phoebe's  desk,  of  the  same  form  and 
wood,  though  of  a  smaller  size  than 
that  of  Alice.  In  its  appointments  it 
was  a  perfect  model  of  neatness.  It 
was  always  absolutely  in  order  ;  while, 
beside  books,  its  shelves  were  orna 
mented  with  vases  and  other  pretty 
trinkets.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room  stood  a  table,  the  receptacle  of  the 
latest  newspapers,  magazines,  and  nov 
els,  that,  like  the  desk,  was  ever  in  or 
der,  and  in  addition  to  its  freight  of 
literature  always  made  room  for  a 
work-basket  well  stocked  with  spools, 
scissors,  and  all  the  implements  of  an 
accomplished  needle-woman. 

Both  sisters  always  retained  their 
country  habit  of  retiring  and  rising 
early  ;  they  were  rarely  out  of  bed  af 
ter  ten  at  night,  and  more  rarely  in  it 
after  six  of  the  morning.  Till  the  sum 
mer  of  1869,  Alice  always  rose  and 
went  to  market,  Phoebe  getting  up  as 
early  and  going  to  her  sewing.  From 
that  time  till  her  death,  Phoebe  did  the 
marketing,  and  the  purchases  of  the 
day  were  all  made  before  breakfast. 
From  that  date,  though  not  equal  to 
the  exertion  of  dressing  and  going  out, 
Alice  arose  no  less  early. 

She  was  often  at  her  desk  by  five 
o'clock  A.  M.,  rarely  later  than  six. 
Not  a  week  that  she  did  not  more  than 
once  tell  us  at  the  breakfast  table  that 
she  had  already  written  a  poem  that 
morning,  sometimes  more  than  one. 
Waking  in  the  night,  or  before  light, 
it  was  often  her  solace  to  weave  her 
songs  while  others  slept  ;  and  the  first 
thing  she  did  on  rising  was  to  write 
them  down  from  memory.  During  El- 
mina's  decline  it  had  been  the  custom 
of  Alice  and  Phoebe  to  meet  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  by  her  bed,  to  ask 


the  dear  one  how  she  had  rested,  and 
to  begin  the  communion  of  the  day. 
From  her  death  it  was  the  habit  of 
Phoebe  to  go  directly  to  Alice  as  soon 
as  she  arose.  Sitting  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  each  would  tell  the 
story  of  her  night,  though  it  was  Alice 
who,  being  very  wakeful,  really  had  a 
story  of  pains  and  thoughts  and  dreams 
to  tell.  I  spent  the  summer,  autumn, 
and  a  part  of  the  winter  of  1869  with 
them,  and  the  memories  of  those  days 
are  as  unique  as  they  are  precious. 
"  We  three  "  met  each  morning  at  the 
breakfast  table,  in  that  pleasant,  pict 
ured  dining-room,  which  so  many  re 
member.  The  same  dainty  china  which 
made  the  Sunday  evening  teas  so  ap 
petizing,  made  the  breakfast  table  beau 
tiful  ;  often  with  the  addition  of  a  vase 
full  of  fresh  flowers,  brought  by  Phce- 
be  from  market.  If  Alice  was  able  to 
be  there  at  all,  she  had  been  able  be 
fore  coming  down  to  deck  her  abun 
dant  locks  with  a  dainty  morning  cap, 
brightened  with  pink  ribbons,  and,  in 
her  white  robe  and  breakfast  shawl, 
with  its  brilliant  border,  never  looked 
lovelier  than  when  pouring  coffee  for 
two  ardent  adorers  of  her  own  sex. 
She  was  always  her  brightest  at  this 
time.  She  had  already  done  work 
enough  to  promise  well  for  the  rest  of 
her  day.  She  was  glad  to  see  us,  glad 
to  be  able  to  be  there,  ready  to  tell  us 
each  our  fortune  anew,  casting  our 
horoscope  afresh  in  her  tea-cup  each 
morning.  Phoebe,  in  her  street  dress, 
just  home  from  market,  "  had  seen  a 
sight,"  and  had  something  funny  to 
tell.  More,  she  had  any  amount  of 
funny  things  to  tell.  The  wittiest  Phoe 
be  Gary  that  ever  made  delightful  an 
evening  drawing-room  was  tame,  com 
pared  with  this  Phoebe  Gary  of  the 
breakfast  table,  with  only  two  women 
to  listen  to  her,  and  to  laugh  till  they 
cried  and  had  strength  to  laugh  no 
longer,  over  her  irresistible  remarks, 
which  she  made  with  the  assumed  so 
lemnity  of  an  owl.  Then  came  the 
morning  journals  and  the  mail  ;  and 
with  discussing  the  state  of  the  nation, 
growing  "  wrought  up  "  over  wrong 
and  injustice  everywhere,  sharing  the 
pleasant  gossip  of  friends,  the  break 
fast  was  often  lengthened  to  a  nearly 
two  hours'  sitting.  Alice  then  went  to 


18 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AArD  PHCEBE    CARY 


the  kitchen  to  order  her  household  for 
the  day,  when  each  of  the  three  went 
to  the  silence  and  labor  of  her  own 
room,  seeing  no  more  of  each  other, 
unless  meeting  over  a  chance  cup  of 
tea  at  lunch,  till  they  reassembled  at 
the  dinner  table,  each  to  tell  the  pleas 
ant  part  of  the  story  of  her  day,  and 
to  repeat  the  delightful  intercourse  of 
the  morning.  After  dinner  there  was 
a  general  adjournment  to  Alice's  or 
Phoebe's  room,  as  it  might  happen. 
It  was  at  this  time,  usually,  that  each 
sister  read  to  the  other  the  poem  that 
she  had  written  or  corrected  and  copied 
that  day.  I  can  see  Phoebe  now,  softly 
opening  the  door  with  her  neat  manu 
script  in  her  hand.  Sitting  down  be 
side  Alice's  couch,  in  a  shy,  deprecat 
ing,  modest  fashion,  most  winsome  to 
behold,  she  would  read  in  low  voice 
the  poem.  We  never  criticised  it.  The 
appealing  tones  of  our  reader  made  the 
very  thoughts  of  criticism  impossible. 
If  it  was  funny,  we  laughed  ;  if  it  was 
sad,  we  cried,  and  our  reader  with  us  ; 
and  in  either  case  she  was  entirely  sat 
isfied  with  the  appreciation  of  her  audi 
ence.  Then  Alice  would  slowly  go  to 
her  desk,  draw  forth  tumbled  sheets  of 
manuscript,  the  opposite  of  Phoebe's 
in  their  chirography.  and,  settling  in 
her  easy-chair,  begin  in  a  low,  crooning 
tone,  one  of  those  quaint,  wild  ballads 
of  hers,  which  long  before  had  made 
her  preeminently  the  balladist  of  Amer 
ica.  Many  of  these  I  cannot  see  now 
without  seeming  to  hear  again  the 
thrilling  vibration  of  her  voice,  as  we 
heard  it  when  she  read  the  song  her 
self  the  very  day  that  it  flowed  from 
heart  and  pen.  Any  time  or  anywhere, 
if  I  listen,  I  can  hear  her  say,  — 

"In  the  stormy  waters  of  Gallaway 
My   boat  had   been    idle    the   livelong 

day, 

Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro, 
For   the  wind  was    high  and  the    tide 

was  low. 

"  The  tide  was  low  and  the  wind  was 

high, 

And  we  Were  heavy,  my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveler,  all  the  day, 
Had  crossed    the  ferry  of    Gallaway." 

Phoebe's    lays,   when  grave    or   sad, 
almost  always   savored    of    her   native 


soil  and  home  life  ;  but  Alice,  on  the 
rhythm  of  her  lyric,  would  bear  us  far 
out  from  the  little  room  and  the  roar 
ing  streets,  into  the  very  lane  of  ro 
mance,  to  the  days  of  chivalry  and 
"flowery  tapestrie."  The  knight  and 
lady,  the  crumbling  castle,  the  tumbling 
and  rushing  sea,  became  for  the  mo 
ment  as  real  to  us  as  to  her. 

The  house  below  was  as  attractive 
as  above. 

A  small,  richly  stained  window  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs  flooded  the  small 
hall  with  gorgeous  light.  This  hall 
was  frescoed  in  panels  of  oak  ;  floor 
and  stairs  covered  with  Brussels  carpet 
of  oak  and  scarlet  tints.  On  its  walls 
hung  colored  engravings  of  oxen,  cows, 
and  horses  ploughing  a  field. 

To  the  right  of  the  front  entrance 
stood,  wide  open,  the  door  of  the 
spacious  parlor,  within  whose  walls 
for  more  than  fifteen  years  gathered 
weekly  so  many  gifted  and  congenial 
souls.  This  parlor  was  a  large  square 
room  with  five  windows,  two  back  and 
two  front,  with  a  deep  bay-window  be 
tween.  These  windows  were  hung  with 
lace,  delicately  embroidered,  from  which 
were  looped  back  curtains  of  pale  green 
brocatelle  lined  with  white  silk.  On 
either  embrasure  of  the  bay-window,  in 
Gothic,  gold  illuminated  frames,  stood 
two  altar  pieces,  about  three  feet  high, 
from  an  old  church  in  Milan,  each 
bearing  on  a  field  of  gold  an  angel  in 
azure  and  rosy  vestments,  one  playing 
on  a  dulcimer,  the  other  holding  a 
golden  palm.  In  antique  letters  in 
black,  beneath,  was  written  on  one 
tablet  Psalm  cl.  3,  and  on  the  other, 
the  succeeding  verse  of  the  same.  A 
large  oil-painting  of  sheep  lying  on  a 
hill-side  hung  at  one  time  over  the  white 
marble  mantel  ;  later,  a  fine  Venetian 
scene  from  Turner,  while  on  either 
side,  very  tall  vases  of  ruby  glass  threw 
a  wine-like  hue  on  the  silvery  wall. 
On  one  side  of  the  mantel  there  was  a 
rosewood  etagere,  lined  with  mirrors, 
and  decorated  with  vases  and  books. 
On  the  other  side  there  was  an  exqui 
site  copy  in  oil  of  Guide's  "  Aurora," 
brought 'by  a  friend  from  Italy.  Oppo 
site  the  bay-window  a  very  broad 
mirror  rose  from  floor  to  ceiling. 

Lovely  Madonnas  and  other  rare 
paintings  covered  the  walls,  some  of 


MR.    GREELEY'S  READING. 


which  had  been  placed  there  by  friends 
who  had  no  proper  room  for  them. 
The  carpet  was  of  velvet  in  deep  crim 
son  and  green  ;  the  chairs  and  sofas, 
which  were  luxurious,  were  also  cush 
ioned  in  velvet  of  various  blending 
hues. 

The  most  remarkable  article  in  the 
room  was  the  large  centre  table,  made 
of  many  thousand  mosaics  of  inlaid 
wood,  each  in  its  natural  tint.  Clus 
ters  of  pansies,  of  the  most  perfect 
outline  and  hue,  formed  the  border  of 
the  table,  while  the  extreme  edge  was 
inlaid  in  tints  scarce  wider  than  a 
thread.  It  was  a  work  of  endless 
patience,  and  of  the  finest  art.  It  was 
made  by  a  poor  Hungarian  artist,  who 
used  nearly  a  whole  life-time  in  this 
work  of  his  hands.  He  brought  it  to 
this  country  hoping  to  realize  for  it  a 
large  sum,  but  was  compelled  by  neces 
sity,  at  last,  to  part  with  it  for  a  small 
amount.  It  passed  from  various  own 
ers  before  it  was  bought  by  Alice  Gary 
.and  placed  in  her  parlor  as  its  central 
shrine,  around  which  gathered  her 
choicest  friends.  Among  the  few 
books  lying  on  a  small  stand  within 
the  bay-window  was  "  Ballads  of  New 
England,"  written  and  presented  by 
Whittier,  with  this  inscription  :  — 

TO    ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    GARY. 

Who  from  the  farm-field  singing  came, 
The  song  whose  echo  now  is  fame, 
.    And  to  the  great  false  city  took 
The  honest  hearts  of  Clovernook, 
And  made  their  home  beside  the  sea 
The  trysting-place  of  Liberty. 

From  their  old  friend, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 
Christmas,  1869. 

Another  was  a  dainty  book  in  green 
and  gold,  entitled  "  The  Golden  Wed 
ding,"  presented  "  To  Phoebe  Gary, 
with  the  kind  regards  of  Joseph  and 
Rebecca  W.  Taylor,"  the  parents  of 
Bayard  Taylor. 

Across  the  hall,  opposite  the  parlor, 
was  the  library,  which  so  many  will 
remember  as  the  very  penetrale  of  this 
home,  in  which  "  the  precious  few " 
were  so  wont  to  gather  for  converse 
and  choice  communion.  These  words 
recall  one  wild  night  of  rain  and  storm, 
which  had  hindered  everybody  else 


from  coming  but  Mr.  Greeley,  when 
he  said,  in  the  hour  before  church, 
"Come,  girls,  let  us  read  '  Morte 
d' Arthur  ;  '  "  and,  taking  Tennyson 
from  the  book-case,  read  from  begin 
ning  to  end  aloud,  "  The  Passing  of 
Arthur."  Mr.  Greeley's  tones,  full  of 
deep  feeling,  I  shall  hear  while  memory 
endures,  as  he  read  :  — 

"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where   shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 

For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance, 
And   every   chance    brought   out   a   noble 

knight. 

But  when  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dis 
solved, 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among    new    men,    strange    faces,    other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge  : 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 

new, 

And  God  fulfills  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 

Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within   Himself  make   pure  !    but 

thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men   better  than  sheep   or 

goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,   knowing    God,   they  lift  not  hands   of 

prayer, 
Both  for  themselves   and   those  who   call 

them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long  way  — 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard 

lawns 


2O 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer 

sea, 
Where    I   will    heal   me   of    my    grievous 

wound." 

Alice  settled  far  back  in  her  easy- 
chair,  listening  with  eloquent  eyes. 
Phoebe  sat  on  a  low  hassock,  playing 
with  the  long  necklace  on  her  neck, 
every  bead  of  which  marked  a  friend's 
remembrance.  Dear  sisters  !  passed 
forever  beyond  the  storm,  we  whom  the 
storm  even  here  has  parted,  may  at 
least  recall  that  hour  of  peace  shared 
together ! 

This  little  library  was  furnished  in 
oak,  its  walls  frescoed  in  oak  with 
panels  of  maroon  shaded  to  crimson. 
Two  windows  faced  the  street,  the  oppo 
site  end  being  nearly  taken  up  by  a 
large  window  of  stained  glass  in  which 
gold  and  sapphire  lights  commingled. 
Opposite  the  hall  door  was  a  black 
marble  mantel  surmounted  by  a  mirror 
set  in  ebony  and  gold.  On  either  side, 
covering  the  entire  length  of  the  room, 
were  open  oaken  book-shelves,  filled 
with  over  a  thousand  volumes,  the  lar 
ger  proportion  handsome  library  edi 
tions  of  the  standard  books  of  the  world. 
The  windows  were  hung  with  satin  cur 
tains  of  an  oaken  tinge  edged  with  ma 
roon.  Between  them  was  a  copy  of  the 
Gary  coat-of-arms,  of  which  Phoebe  was 
so  fond,  richly  framed.  Below,  a  little 
gem  in  oil,  of  a  Northampton  (Massa 
chusetts)  scene,  hung  over  a  small  table 
covered  with  a  crimson  cloth,  on  which 
lay  a  very  large  Family  Bible.  To  the 
left  of  the  front  windows  hung  an  oil 
portrait  of  Madame  Le  Brun,  the  fa 
mous  French  artist,  from  an  original 
painting  by  herself,  now  hanging  in  the 
Florentine  Museum.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  door  hung,  in  oval  frames,  the 
portraits  of  Alice  and  Phoebe,  painted 
not  long  after  their  arrival  in  New 
York.  The  marble-topped  table  before 
the  stained  glass  window  was  piled  with 
costly  books,  chiefly  souvenirs  from 
friends.  Two  deep  arm-chairs  were 
near,  one  cushioned  in  green,  the  other 
in  blue  velvet ;  the  green,  Alice's  chair  ; 
the  blue,  Phoebe's.  The  Brussels  car 
pet  was  the  exact  counterpart  of  the 
walls,  shaded  in  oak,  maroon  and  crim 
son.  You  have  discovered  before  now, 
that  the  Gary  home  was  never  furnished 


by  an  upholsterer  ?  Its  furniture,  its 
trinkets  and  treasures,  were  the  com 
bined  accumulation  of  twenty  years.  It 
was  filled  with  keepsakes  from  friends, 
and  some  of  its  choicest  articles  had 
been  bought  at  intervals,  as  she  could 
afford  to  do  so,  by  Alice  at  Marley's 
shop  for  antique  furniture  on  Broad 
way,  which  she  took  extreme  pleasure  in 
visiting.  Here,  also,  she  could  gratify 
her  taste  for  old  exquisite  china,  in 
which  she  took  the  keenest  delight. 
Many  who  drank  tea  with  her  have 
not  forgotten  the  delicate,  egg-like  cups 
out  of  which  they  drank  it.  She  had  a 
china  tea-set  in  her  possession  over  a 
hundred  years  old.  Many  have  the  im 
pression  that  Phoebe  was  the  house 
keeper  of  this  home.  Until  the  summer 
of  1869,  this  was  in  no  sense  true.  Be 
yond  the  occasional  spontaneous  prep 
aration  of  a  favorite  dish,  Phoebe  had  no 
care  of  the  house.  For  nearly  twenty 
years  Alice  arose,  went  to  market,  and 
laid  out  the  entire  household  plan  of 
the  day,  before  Phoebe  appeared  at 
breakfast. 

Alice  Gary  managed  her  house  with 
quiet  system  and  without  ado.  Her 
home  was  beautifully  kept,  the  kitchen 
and  garret  as  perfect  in  their  appoint 
ments  and  as  perfect  in  their  order  as 
her  parlor.  She  was  an  indulgent  mis 
tress,  respecting  the  rights  of  every 
person  in  her  household  as  much  as 
her  own,  and  two  servants  (sisters)  who 
were  with  her  when  she  died,  one  of 
whom  closed  Phoebe's  eyes  in  death, 
lived  with  her  many  years. 

Phoebe  did  not  "  take  to  housework," 
but  was  a  very  queen  of  the  needle. 
Over  work-basket  and  cutting-board 
she  reigned  supreme,  and  here  held 
Alice  at  disadvantage.  Alice  could  trim 
a  bonnet  or  make  a  cap  to  perfection  ; 
with  these,  the  creative  quality  of  her 
needle  ended.  A  dress  subdued  her, 
and  brought  her  a  humble  suppliant  to 
the  sewing-throne  of  Phoebe.  There 
were  at  least  two  weeks  in  early  spring, 
and  two  in  the  autumn,  which  were 
called  "  Miss  Lyon's  weeks,"  when 
Alice  was  literally  under  the  paw  of  a 
lion.  Miss  Lyon  was  the  dressmaker. 
She  was  quiet,  kindly,  artistic,  and  nec 
essary;  therefore,  in  her  kingdom,  an 
unmitigated  tyrant.  Literature  did  not 
dare  to  peep  in  on  Miss  Lyon's  weeks, 


MISS  LYON'S    WEEKS.1 


21 


or  if  it  did,  it  was  before  she  came,  or 
while  she  was  at  breakfast.  Books  and 
papers  she  would  not  suffer  in  her  sight 
after  work  began.  She  was  always 
wanting  "  half  a  yard  more  "  of  some 
thing.  She  was  always  sending  us  out 
for  "trimmings,"  and,  as  we  rarely 
found  the  right  ones,  was  continually 
sending  us  again.  Poor  Alice  !  she 
went  out  six  times  one  hot  morning  to 
find  a  stick  of  braid,  which  Miss  Lyon 
insisted  should  have  a  peculiar  kink. 
Once  back,  we  had  to  sit  down  beside 
her,  to  '•  try  on  "  and  to  assist.  If  we 
did  not,  "  we  could  not  have  our  new 
frocks,  that  was  all,"  for  Miss  Lyon 
"  could  not  possibly  go  through  them 
alone,  and  she  had  not  another  day, 
not  one,  before  winter."  Thus,  while 
purgatory  reigned  on  Alice's  side  of  the 
house,  Phoebe  in  hers  sat  enthroned  in 
serene  satisfaction.  She  was  no  slave 
to  Miss  Lyon,  not  she.  On  the  con 
trary,  while  Miss  Lyon  snubbed  us,  she 
crossed  the  hall  to  consult  Phoebe  in  a 
tone  of  deference,  which  (profession 
ally)  she  never  condescended  to  bestow 
on  her  victims.  In  Miss  Lyon's  days, 
nobody  would  have  suspected  that  the 
house  held  a  blue-stocking.  Dry  goods, 
shreds,  and  tags  prevailed  above  stairs, 
and  Alice's  room  looked  like  a  first- 
class  dressmaker's  shop,  in  which  Miss 
Lyon  ruled  between  two  forlorn  ap 
prentices.  It  is  not  easy  to  see  Alice 
Gary  in  a  comical  light,  and  yet  Alice 
Gary  in  Phoebe's  door,  holding  up  an 
unfinished  sacque,  in  which  she  had 
sewed  a  sleeve  upside  down,  and  made 
one  an  inch  shorter  than  the  other,  with 
her  look  of  blended  consternation  and 
despair,  was  a  comical  sight.  Phoebe 
was  her  only  refuge  in  such  a  plight, 
and  to  rip  the  sleeve,  trim  it,  right  it, 
and  baste  it  in  again,  was  the  work  of 
a  very  few  minutes  for  her  deft  fingers. 
Sacques,  dresses,  cloaks,  and  hats,  all 
cut,  and  fitted,  and  made,  came  out 
from  her  hands  absolutely  perfect,  to 
the  wonder  and  envy  of  the  unfortu 
nates  across  the  hall.  Miss  Lyon,  al 
ways  leaving  her  sceptre  up-stairs,  at  the 
table  was  a  sorrowful,  communicative 
woman,  who  poured  the  story  of  her 
troubles,  her  loneliness,  and  poor  health 
into  sympathizing  ears.  She  tormented 
us,  but  we  liked  her,  and  were  sorry  for 
her.  We  comforted  her  when  she  was 


sick,  and  cried  when  she  died,  and  re 
membered  her  with  a  sigh.  It  was  a 
weary  woman's  poor  little  life  after  all  ! 
She  too  had  her  dream  of  future,  home, 
and  rest  ;  but  the  money  that  she 
worked  so  hard  to  earn,  and  denied 
herself  the  necessities  of  life  to  save, 
she  saved  to  will  to  a  well-to-do  rel 
ative  who  had  neglected  and  forsaken 
her  while  she  lived.  By  July,  Miss 
Lyon's  reign  was  over,  but  the  king 
doms  she  had  conquered  were  all  vis 
ible,  marked  by  the  new  dresses  lying 
in  a  row  on  the  bed  in  the  little  attic 
chamber.  Alas  !  on  that  same  bed 
some  of  them  lay  after  Alice's  death, 
untouched.  The  poor  hand  that  made 
them,  and  knotted  their  dainty  ribbons, 
and  the  lovely  form  that  was  to  have 
worn  them,  both  alike  locked  from  all 
device  in  the  fastness  of  the  grave  ! 

The  only  shadow  resting  on  the 
house  was  that  of  sickness  and  hover 
ing  death.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  absolutely  harmonious  than  the 
daily  abiding  intercourse  of  these  sis 
ters.  This  was  not  because  they  al 
ways  thought  alike,  nor  because  they 
never  in  any  way  crossed  each  other, 
nor  wis  it  based  on  their  devoted  affec 
tion  and  perfect  faith  in  each  other 
alone.  Persons  may  believe  in  each 
other,  and  love  each  other  dearly,  and 
yet  live  in  a  constant  state  of  friction. 
It  was  chiefly  because  each  cherished 
a  most  conscientious  consideration  for 
the  peculiarities  of  the  other,  and  be 
cause  in  the  minutest  particular  they 
treated  each  other  with  absolute  polite 
ness.  There  is  such  an  expression 
used  as  "society  manner."  These  sis 
ters  had  no  manner  for  society  more 
charming  in  the  slightest  particular, 
than  they  had  for  each  other.  No  pun 
ever  came  into  Phoebe's  head  too 
bright  to  be  flashed  over  Alice,  and 
Alice  had  no  gentleness  for  strangers 
which  she  withheld  from  Phoebe.  The 
perfect  gentlewomen  which  they  were 
in  the  parlor,  they  were  always,  under 
every  circumstance.  There  was  not 
a  servant  in  the  house,  who,  in  his  or 
her  place,  was  not  treated  with  as  ab 
solute  a  politeness  as  a  guest  in  the 
parlor.  This  spirit  of  perfect  breeding 
penetrated  every  word  and  act  of  the 
household.  What  Alice  and  Phoebe 
Gary  were  in  their  drawing-room,  they 


22 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND   PHCEBE    CARY. 


were  always  in  the  absolute  privacy  of 
their  lives.  Each  obeyed  one  inflexi 
ble  law.  Whatever  she  felt  or  en 
dured,  because  of  it  she  was  not  to  in 
flict  any  suffering  upon  her  sister  ;  no, 
not  even  if  that  sister  had  inadvert 
ently  been  the  cause  of  it.  If  she  was 
"  out  of  sorts,"  she  went  into  her  own 
room,  shut  her  door  and  "  had  it  out  " 
by  herself.  Whatever  shape -her  Apol- 
lyon  might  take,  she  fought  with  him, 
and  slew  him,  alone.  When  she  ap 
peared  outside,  it  might  strike  one  that 
a  new  line  of  pain  had  for  the  moment 
lit  upon  her  face  ;  that  was  the  only 
sign  of  the  foe  routed.  The  bright 
sally,  the  quiet  smile,  the  perfection 
of  gentle  breeding  were  all  there,  un- 
di mined  and  indestructible. 

The  first  of  July,  Phoebe  went  to 
Waldemere,  Bridgeport,  Conn.,  to 
visit  the  family  of  Mr.  P.  T.  Barnum, 
arid  then  to  Cambridge,  to  see  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  H.  O.  Houghton  ;  from  thence  to 
visit  the  family  of  Rev.  Dr.  B.  F.  Tefft 
in  Bangor,  Maine.  Early  in  June, 
Alice  had  been  persuaded  Jp  visit  a 
beloved  niece  in  the  mountain  region 
of  Pennsylvania.  She  remained  a 
week,  and  on  her  return  told  how  the 
sweet  country  air  and  the  smell  of  the 
woods  had  brought  back  her  girlhood. 
"  But  I  could  not  stay,"  she  said  ;  u  I 
had  so  much  to  do."  Nor  would  she 
be  induced  to  go  again,  though  loving 
friends  urged,  indeed  entreated  her  to 
leave  her  desk,  and  the  heat  and  tur- 
noil  of  the  city. 

Physically  and  mentally  she  needed 
Change  and  respite  from  the  overstrain 
>f  too  long  continued  toil.  A  sum 
mer  in  the  country,  at  this  crisis  in  her 
health,  could  not  have  failed  to  reno 
vate,  if  not  to  restore  life.  But  she 
clung  to  her  home,  her  own  room  and 
surroundings,  and  to  her  work,  and  re 
luctantly  Phoebe  went  forth  to  the  kind 
friends  awaiting  her,  alone.  That  was 
a  mystical  month  that  followed,  that 
month  of  July.  The  very  walls  of  the 
houses  seemed  changed  into  burning 
brass.  The  sun,  uncooled  by  showers, 
rose  and  set,  tracking  all  his  course 
with  a  consuming  fire.  Everybody 
who  could  escape,  had  fled  the  city. 
During  the  entire  month  I  do  not  re 
member  that  one  person,  not  of  the 
small  household,  crossed  the  threshold. 


We  closed  blinds  and  doors,  and  were 
alone.  Apart  at  work  all  day,  we 
spent  our  evenings  together.  In  those 
summer  nights,  with  the  blinds  opened 
to  let  in  a  stray  breeze  from  the  bay, 
with  no  light  but  the  fitful  flicker  of 
the  lamp  across  the  street,  in  the  si 
lence  and  dimness,  feeling  the  whole 
world  shut  out  and  far  away;  then  it 
was  that  the  flood-gates  of  memory 
opened,  and  one  received  into  her  soul, 
with  a  depth  and  fullness  and  sacred- 
ness  never  to  be  expressed,  that  which 
was  truly  Alice  Gary's  life. 

In  August,  Alice  wrote  to  me  at 
Newport :  "  Phoebe  is  still  away,  and  I 
alone  in  the  house  ;  but  busy  as  a  bee 
from  morning  till  night.  I  often  hear 
it  said  that  people,  as  they  grow  older, 
lose  their  interest  in  things  around 
them  ;  but  this  is  not  true  of  me.  I 
take  more  interest  in  life,  in  all  that 
concerns  it,  and  in  human  beings, 
every  year  I  live.  If  I  fail  of  bringing 
something  worthy  to  pass,  I  don't 
mean  that  it  shall  be  for  lack  of  en 
ergy  or  industry.  I  'in  putting  the 
house  in  order,  and  have  such  new  and 
pleasant  plans  for  the  winter.  Do 
hasten  back,  that  I  may  tell  you  all 
about  them."  In  two  weeks  I  re 
turned,  and,  going  at  once  to  her  fa 
miliar  room,  she  met  me  on  the  thresh 
old  without  a  word.  As  she  kissed 
me,  her  tears  fell  upon  my  face  ;  and, 
looking  up,  I  saw  the  change  in  hers. 
The  Indian  summer  of  youth,  which 
had  made  it  so  fair,  four  little  weeks 
before,  had  now  gone  from  it  forever  ; 
the  shadow  of  the  grave  reached  it 
already. 

"  Since  I  wrote  you,"  she  said,  "  My 
only  sister,  save  Phoebe,  has  died  ;  and 
look  at  me  !  "  She  moved,  and  I  saw 
that  the  graceful,  swaying  movement, 
so  especially  hers,  was  gone  —  that  she 
was  hopelessly  lame. 

Thus  that  first  of  September  began 
the  last,  fierce  struggle  between  life 
and  death,  which  was  to  continue  for 
seventeen  months.  Only  God  and  his 
ministering  angels  know  with  what 
pangs  that  soul  and  body  parted.  I 
I  cannot  think  of  it  without  a  shudder 
and  a  sigh  —  a  shudder  for  the  agony, 
a  sigh  for  that  patient  and  tender  and 
loving  heart,  so  full  of  life  and  yearn 
ing  amid  the  anguish  of  dissolving 


SUNDAY  EVENING  RECEPTIONS. 


nature.  At  first  it  seemed  impossible 
that  she  could  remain  lame.  Each 
day  we  said :  "  To-morrow  you  must 
come  down- stairs  again."  But,  save 
with  crutches,  she  never  walked  again. 
In  the  beginning  it  seemed  impossible 
for  her  to  adjust  her  mind  or  habits  to 
this  fact,  or  to  realize  that  she  was  not 
able  to  join  the  familiar  circle  around 
the  Sunday  evening  tea-table.  Yet  the 
more  impossible  it  became  for  her  to 
participate  personally,  the  more  eager 
she  became  for  the  happiness  of  others. 
She  would  have  us  dress  in  her  room, 
that  she  might  refresh  her  eyes  with 
bright  colors  ;  and  leave  the  door  of 
her  room  open,  that  she  might  hear  the 
tones  of  dear,  familiar  voices  coming 
up  from  below.  When  tea  was  cheer 
ing,  and  speech  and  laughter  flowing 
freest,  there  was  something  inexpressi 
bly  touching  in  the  thought  of  the 
woman  who  provided  this  cheer  for  so 
many,  sitting  by  herself  in  a  darkened 
room,  sick  and  alone.  Once,  in  going 
up  to  her,  I  found  her  weeping.  "  You 
should  not  have  left  the  others,"  she 
said.  "  My  only  pleasure  is  in  thinking 
that  you  are  all  happy  down-stairs. 
But  it  makes  me  cry  to  think  that  I  am 
done  with  it  all  ;  that  in  one  sense  I 
am  as  far  away  from  you  in  health,  as  if 
I  were  already  in  eternity." 

In  the  early  dawn  of  a  wintry  morn 
ing,  I  went  in  to  her  bedside  to  say 
good-by.  The  burning  hands  out 
stretched,  the  tearful,  beseeching  eyes, 
the  low  voice  burdened  with  loving 
farewell,  are  among  the  most  precious 
and  pathetic  of  all  the  treasures  which 
faithful  memory  bears  on  to  her  in  the 
land  where  she  now  is. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
THEIR   SUNDAY  EVENING    RECEPTIONS. 

THE  most  resplendent  social  assem 
blies  which  the  world  has  ever  seen 
have  been  those  in  which  philosophy, 
politics,  and  literature  mingled  with 
fortune,  rank,  beauty,  grace,  and  wit. 
Nor  was  this  commingling  of  dazzling 
human  forces  identical  only  with  the 
Parisian  salon.  "  Blue-stocking  "  in 
our  day  is  synonymous  only  with  a  stiff, 


stilted,  queer  literary  woman  of  a  dubi 
ous  age.  Yet  the  first  blue-stocking, 
Elizabeth  Montague,  was  a  woman  who 
dazzled  with  her  wit,  as  well  as  by  her 
beauty,  and  who  blazed  with  diamonds 
at  fourscore.  A  purely  blue-stocking 
party,  to-day,  would  doubtless  give  us 
sponge  cake,  weak  tea,  and  the  dreari 
est  of  driveling  professional  talk.  Yet 
the  first  assemblies  which  bore  the 
name  of  blue-stocking  were  made  up 
of  actors,  divines,  beaux,  belles,  the 
pious  and  the  worldly,  the  learned  and 
the  fashionable,  the  titled  and  the  lowly 
born.  Here,  in  the  drawing-room  of 
Montague  House,  mingled  gayly  to 
gether,  might  have  been  seen  volatile 
Mrs.  Thrale,  wise  Hannah  More,  and 
foolish  Fanny  Burney  ;  the  Greek 
scholar,  Elizabeth  Carter,  with  Garrick, 
Johnson,  Reynolds,  Young,  Beattie, 
Burke,  Lord  Kames,  Lord  Chatham, 
and  Horace  Walpole,  with  many  others 
as  personally  brilliant  if  less  renowned. 
One  never  thinks  of  calling  a  man  a 
blue-stocking  now  ;  yet  it  was  a  man 
who  first  wore  "  cerulean  hose  "  in  a 
fashionable  assembly  —  Dr.  Stilling- 
fleet,  who  was  a  sloven  as  well  as  a 
scholar.  Admiral  Boscawen,  glancing 
at  his  gray-blue  stockings,  worn  at  one 
of  Mrs.  Montague's  assemblies,  gave 
it  the  name  of  the  Blue-stocking  As 
sembly,  to  indicate  that  the  full  dress, 
still  indispensable  to  evening  parties, 
might  be  dispensed  with,  if  a  person  so 
chose,  at  Mrs.  Montague's.  A  French 
man,  catching  at  the  phrase,  exclaimed, 
"Ah  !  les  bas  blens!"  And  the  title 
has  clung  to  the  literary  woman  ever 
since. 

The  nearest  approach  to  the  first  ideal 
blue-stocking  reception  ever  reached 
in  this  country  was  the  Sunday  evening 
receptions  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary. 
Here,  for  over  fifteen  years,  in  an  un 
pretending  home,  gathered  not  only  the 
most  earnest,  but  many  of  the  most 
brilliant  Americans  of  our  time.  There 
are  like  assemblies  still,  wherein  men 
and  women  rich  in  all  fine  gifts  and 
graces  meet  and  mingle  ;  yet  I  doubt  if 
there  be  one  so  catholic,  so  finely  com 
prehensive,  as  to  make  it  the  rallying 
spot,  the  outraying  centre  of  the  artis 
tic  and  literary  life  of  the  metropolis. 
Its  central  magnet  lost,  such  a  circle, 
once  broken  and  scattered  in  all  its 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   CARY. 


parts,  cannot  be  easily  regathered  and 
bound.  Society  must  wait  till  another 
soul,  equally  potent,  sweet,  unselfish, 
sympathetic,  and  centripetal,  shall  draw 
together  once  more  its  scattered  forces 
in  one  common  bond.  For  the  relief 
of  Puritan  friends  who  are  troubled 
that  those  receptions  occurred  on  Sab 
bath  evening,  I  must  say  they  never 
hindered  anybody  from  going  to  church. 
Horace  Greeley,  who  never  missed  a 
Sabbath  evening  in  this  house  when  in 
the  city,  used  to  drink  his  two  cups  of 
sweetened  milk  and  water,  say  his  say, 
and  then  suddenly  vanish,  to  go  and 
speak  at  a  temperance  meeting,  to  lis 
ten  to  Dr.  Chapin,  or  to  write  his 
Monday  morning  leader  for  the  "  Trib 
une."  Sabbath  evening  was  their  re 
ception  evening  because  it  was  the  only 
one  which  the  sisters  had  invariably 
free  from  labor  ;  and,  as  a  rule,  this 
was  equally  true  of  their  guests. 
While  her  health  permitted,  Alice  at 
tended  church  regularly  every  Sunday 
morning,  and  till  her  last  sickness 
Phoebe  was  a  faithful  church  goer  ;  but 
Sabbath  evening  was  their  own  and 
their  friends'.  In  their  receptions 
there  was  no  formality,  no  rule  of  dress. 
You  could  come  as  simply  or  as  finely 
arrayed  as  you  chose.  Your  costly  cos 
tume  would  not  increase  your  welcome, 
nor  your  shabby  attire  place  you  at  a 
discount.  Indeed,  if  anything  about 
you  ever  so  remotely  suggested  pov 
erty  or  loneliness,  it  would,  at  the  ear 
liest  possible  moment,  bring  Alice  to 
your  side.  Her  dark,  gentle,  tender  eyes 
would  make  you  feel  at  home  at  once. 
You  would  forget  your  clothes  and 
yourself  altogether,  in  a  quiet,  imper 
sonal,  friendly  flow  of  talk  which  would 
begin  at  once  between  you.  If  a  stran 
ger,  she  would  be  sure  not  to  leave  you 
till  Phoebe  came,  or  till  she  had  intro 
duced  you  to  some  pleasant  person,  and 
you  would  not  find  yourself  again  alone 
during  the  evening.  This  was  the  dis 
tinctive  characteristic  of  these  Sunday 
evenings,  that  they  opened  welcoming 
doors  to  all  sympathetic  souls,  without 
the  slightest  reference  to  the  state  of 
their  finances  or  mere  worldly  condi 
tion. 

"  What  queer  people  you  do  see  at 
the  Carys'  !  It  is  as  good  as  a  show  !  " 
exclaimed  a  merely  fashionable  woman. 


"  I  have  no  desire  to  go  to  the  Ca 
rys',''  said  a  supercilious  literary  dame, 
"  while  they  admit  such  people." 

"  Why,  they  are  reputable,  are  they 
not  ?  "  was  the  astonished  reply. 

"  For  aught  I  know  ;  but  they  are  so 
odd,  and  they  have  no  position  —  abso 
lutely  none." 

"  Then  the  more  they  must  need 
friends,  Alice  and  Phoebe  think.  They 
contradict  Goldsmith's  assertion  :  '  If 
you  want  friends,  be  sure  not  to  need 
them:  " 

Phoebe's  attention  was  called  one 
day  to  a  young  man,  poor,  little  known, 
ungraceful  in  bearing,  and  stiff  in  man 
ner,  who  had  artistic  tastes  and  a  de 
sire  to  know  artistic  people,  and  who 
sometimes  came  quietly  into  the  little 
library,  on  Sunday  evening,  without 
any  special  invitation,  but  who  no  less 
was  cordially  received. 

"—  -  says  she  is  astonished  that 
you  receive  'him,"  said  a  friend.  "  He 
is  so  pushing  and  presumptuous,  and 
his  family  is  very  common." 

"You  tell ,"  said  Phoebe,  with  a 

flash  in  her  black  eyes,  "•  that  we  like 
him  very  much  :  that  he  is  just  as  wel 
come  here  as  she  is,  and  we  are  always 
glad  to  see  Iicr" 

There  are  centres  of  reunion  still  in 
New  York,  where  literary,  artistic,  and 
cultured  people  meet  ;  but  we  doubt  if 
there  is  another  wherein  the  poor  and 
unknown,  of  aspiring  tastes  and  refined 
sensibilities,  could  be  so  certain  of  an 
entire,  unconscious  welcome,  untinged 
by  even  the  suggestion  of  condescen 
sion  or  of  patronage  ;  where,  in  plain 
garb  and  with  unformed  manners,  they 
could  come  and  be  at  home.  Yet  the 
Sunday  evening  reception  was  by  no 
means  the  rendezvous  of  the  queer  and 
ne'er-do-well  alone.  During  the  fifteen 
years  or  more  in  which  it  flourished,  at 
the  little  house  in  Twentieth  Street,  it 
numbered  among  its  guests  and  habit 
ues  as  many  remarkable  men  and 
women  as  ever  gathered  around  the 
abundant  board  at  Streatham,  or  sat  in 
the  library  of  Strawberry  Hill. 

There  was  Horace  Greeley,  who  so 
rarely  missed  a  Sabbath  evening  at 
this  house  —  a  man  in  mind  greater 
than  Johnson,  and  in  manners  not  un 
like  him  ;  who  will  live  in  the  future 
among  the  most  famous  of  his  contem- 


THEIR    VISITORS. 


poraries,  as  the  man  who,  perhaps, 
more  than  any  other,  left  his  own  dis 
tinctive,  individual  mark  upon  the  times 
in  which  he  lived.  There  was  Oliver 
Johnson,  rarely  absent  from  that  cheery 
tea-table,  the  apostle  of  human  free 
dom,  who  stood  in  the  van  of  its  fee 
ble  guard  when  it  cost  much  to  do 
that  ;  strong,  earnest,  brave,  and  true, 
a  king  of  radicals,  whose  swiftest  theo 
ries  never  outran  his  faith  in  God,  his 
love  for  human  nature,  his  self-abne 
gating  devotion  to  his  friends,  even 
when  his  only  reward  was  selfishness 
and  unworthiness.  There  was  Mary 
Ann  Johnson,  his  wife,  so  recently 
translated,  whose  memory  of  simple, 
dignified,  wise,  and  tender  womanhood 
is  a  precious  and  imperishable  legacy 
to  all  who  ever  knew  and  loved  her. 
And  Julia  Deane,  Alice  Gary's  beloved 
friend,  golden-haired,  matchless  as  a 
Grecian  goddess.  I  see  her  now  as  I 
saw  her  first,  in  the  radiance  of  her 
undimmed  beauty,  sitting  by  Whittier's 
side,  great  poet  and  gentle  man,  in  his 
plain  Friends'  gard,  yet  worshiping, 
as  man  and  poet  must,  the  loveliness 
of  woman  !  What  a  troop  of  names, 
more  or  less  famous,  arise  as  I  recall 
those  who  at  different  times  have  min 
gled  in  those  receptions  !  Bayard  Tay 
lor,  with  his  gifted  and  lovely  wife  ; 
the  two  married  poets,  Richard  and 
Elizabeth  Stoddard  ;  Prof.  R.  W.  Ray 
mond,  Robert  Dale  Owen,  Justin  Mc 
Carthy,  Hon.  Henry  Wilson,  Samuel 
Bowles,  George  Ripley,  Edwin  Whip- 
pie,  Richard  Kimball,  Thomas  B.  Al- 
drich,  Carpenter  (the  artist),  Robert 
Chambers  of  Edinburgh,  Robert  Bon- 
ner  of  New  York,  a  man  as  generous 
in  nature  and  pure  in  character  as  he 
has  been  preeminently  successful  in 
acquiring  wealth  and  fame,  and  who 
for  many  years,  till  their  death,  was 
the  faithful  friend  of  Alice  and  Phoebe. 
Among  clergymen  there  were  Rev.  Dr. 
Abel  Stevens,  Methodist  ;  Rev.  Dr. 
Chapin,  Universalist  ;  Rev.  Dr.  Field, 
Presbyterian  ;  Rev.  Dr.  Deems,  Meth 
odist.  Whatever  their  theologies,  all 
agreed  in  their  faith  in  womanhood,  as 
they  found  it  embodied  in  Alice  and 
Phoebe  Gary.  Among  women  much 
beloved  by  the  sisters,  who  always  had 
the  entree  of  their  home,  were  Mary 
L.  Booth,  Mrs.  Wright,  Mrs.  Mary  E. 


Dodge,  Mrs.  Croly,  Mrs.  Victor,  Mrs. 
Rayl,  Mrs.  Mary  Stevens  Robinson.  I 
have  not  space  for  one  tenth  of  the 
names  I  might  recall  —  actors,  artists, 
poets,  clergymen,  titled  people  from 
abroad,  women  of  fashion,  women  of 
letters,  women  of  home,  the  known  and 
the  unknown.  In  each  type  and  class 
they  found  friends  ;  and  what  better 
proof  could  be  given  of  the  richness 
of  their  humanity,  that,  without  being 
narrowed  by  any,  their  hearts  were  large 
enough  for 'all  ! 

Perhaps  neither  sister  could  have 
attractecl  into  one  common  circle  so 
many  minds,  various,  if  not  conflicting 
in  their  separate  sphere  of  thought  and 
action.  Each  sister  was  the  counter 
part  of  the  other.  To  the  sympathy, 
appreciation,  tact,  gentleness,  and  ten 
derness  of  Alice  were  added  the  wit 
and  bonhomie  and  sparkling  cheer  of 
Phoebe.  The  combination  was  perfect 
for  social  effect  and  success. 

Rev.  Charles  F.  Deems,  Phoebe's 
pastor  at  the  time  of  her  death,  and 
the  cherished  and  trusted  friend  of 
both  sisters,  at  the  request  of  its  ed 
itor  wrote  for  "  Packard's  Monthly," 
February,  1870,  an  article  entitled 
"Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary:  Their  Home 
and  Friends,"  which  contains  so  vivid 
a  sketch  of  some  of  their  Sunday  even 
ing  visitors  that  I  quote  from  it :  — 

"  If  they  could  all  be  gathered  into 
one  room,  it  would  really  be  a  sight  to 
see  all  the  people  who  "have  been  at 
tracted  by  these  charming  women 
during  the  years  they  have  occupied 
this  cozy  home.  Let  us  fancy  that 
they  are  so  collected. 

"  There  is,  facile  princeps  of  their 
friends,  Horace  Greeley  —  not  so  very 
handsome,  perhaps,  but  owing  so  much 
to  his  toilet  !  He  is  sitting  in  a  listen 
ing  or  abstracted  attitude,  with  his 
great,  full  head  bent,  or  smiling  all 
over  his  great  baby  face  as  he  hears  or 
tells  something  good  ;  perhaps  espe 
cially  enjoying  the  famous  Quaker  ser 
mon  which  Oliver  Johnson,  of  the  '  In 
dependent,'  is  telling  with  suc\i  friendly 
accentuation,  and  with  such  command 
over  his  strong  features,  while  all  the 
company  are  at  the  point  of  explosion. 
That  round-headed  Professor  of  Rhet 
oric  in  the  corner,  who  reads  Shake 
speare  in  a  style  that  would  make  the 


26 


MEMORIAL    ()/•'  ALICE   AND   /'/A /•:/>' A1    GARY. 


immortal  William  thrill  if  In-  could 
only  hear  him,  is  Professor  Raymond. 
That  slightly  built  man  with  a'  heavy 
moustache  is  Lord  Adare,  son  of  a 
Scotch  carl  ;  and  the  bonny,  bright 
eyed  woman  by  his  side  is  his  wife 
immensely  pleased  with  Phojbc's  fre 
quent  and  rapid  sallies  of  wit.  And 
there  are  Robert  Dale  Owen,  author  of 
'  Footfalls  on  the  Boundary  of  Another 
World,1  and  Kdwin  \Vhipple.  the  Hos- 
ton  essayist  and  lecturer,  whose  fore 
head  doth  so  forcibly  oppress  all  tin- 
rest  of  his  face  ;  and  there,  Samuel 
Howies,  of  the  'Springfield  Republi 
can,'  and  author  of  'Across  the  Conti 
nent  :  '  and  the  nobly  built  and  genial 
traveler.  Colonel  Thomas  W.  Kno\,  of 
the  '  Sun/  who  has  charmed  us  so  in 
print  with  his  sketches  of  Russia  and 
Siberia,  and  who  can  talk  quite  as  well 
as  he  can  write;  and  there.  Justin 
McCarthy,  formerly  of  the  London 
'Morning  Star,'  and  author  of  'My 
Fnemy's  Daughter;'  and  that  hand 
some  old  gentleman,  with  the  smile  of 
the  morning  in  his  face,  so  courtly 
that  you  feel  he  should  be  some  king's 
prime  minister,  and  so  venerable  that 
he  would  give  dignity  to  an  arch 
bishop's  cro/.ier,  is  Ole  Bull,  whose 
cunning  hands  have  wrung  ravishing 
music  from  the  strings  of  the  violin  : 
and  just  beyond,  burly  and  full  of  good 
nature,  is  f'hineas  T.  Barnum.  'show- 
man.'  and  more  than  that,  with  great 
brains,  which  would  have  made  him 
notable  in  any  department.  If  the 
public  have  had"  pleasure  in  seeing  his 
shows,  he  has  had  pleasure  in  studv- 
ing  the  public;  and  his  knowledge  of 
hum  in  nature  makes  him  a  most  enter 
taining  talker.  If  any  have  thought  of 
him  only  as  a  '  humbuggcr,'  let  the 
profound  regard  he  has  for  these  sin 
cere  and  honest  ladies,  whose  guest  he 
so  often  is,  plead  against  all  that  he 
has  confessed  against  himself  in  his 
autobiography.  lit-  'does  -nod  by 
stealth,  and  blushes  to  find  it  fame,1 
but  tells  all  the  bad  about  himself  un- 
blushingly.  A  whole  group  of  editors 
might  be  fancied  only  that  they  have 
enough  of  each  other  '  down  town,'  and 
so  in  society  seek  some  one  else,  and 
do  not  'group  :  '  for  there  are  Dr. 
Field,  the  excellent  editor  of  the 
'  Kvangclist  ;'  and  Mr.  Flliott  ami  Mr. 


Perry,  of  the  '  Home  Journal  ;  '  and 
\Vhitelaw  Reid,  of  the  '  Tribune  :  '  and 
Mr.  R.  W.  C.ilder.  <>t  the  •  Hours  at 
1  lome  ;  '  and  last  but  not  least,  Mr. 
Robert  Homier,  of  the  '  Ledger.'  of 
whom,  seeing  that  1  have  never  had 
literary  and  financial  dealings  with 
him  on  my  own  account,  I  may  say 
that  he  has  made  illustrious  the  pro 
verb,  'There  is  that  scattereth.  and 
yet  increased!.1  The  publishers  are 
represented  by  Robert  Chambers,  of 
Fdinburgh.  who  has  so  much  •  Infor 
mation  for  the  People  '  that  people 
need  not  be  informed  who  he  is  ;  and 
George  \VT.  Carleton,  the  prince  of 
publishers,  whose  elegant  new  book 
house,  on  Broadway,  has  already  In- 
come  the  resort  of  literarv  and  taste 
ful  people. 

"And  then,  what  ladies  have  been 
in  that  house  !  How  many  of  the 
most  refined  and  noble  women,  whose 
names  are  unknown  to  fame,  but 
whose  minds  and  manners  have  given 
to  society  its  aroma  and  beauty  ! 
How  many  whose  names  are  known 
all  over  Christendom!  If  that  of 
Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton  suggests  to  a 
stranger  —  as.  until  I  knew  her.  it  cer 
tainly  did  to  me  —  anything  not  beau 
tifully  feminine,  how  he  will  be  dis 
appointed  when  he  sees  her.  She  is 
quiet,  self  poised.  'lad\-like"  — for  she 
is  a  lady --plump  as"  a  partridge,  of 
warm  complexion,  has  a  well  formed 
head,  adorned  with  white  hair,  put  up 
unstiflly  in  puffs,  and  she  would  any 
where-  be  taken  for  the.  mother  of  a 
governor  or  president,  if  governors 
and  presidents  were  always  gentlemen. 
I  have  studied  Mrs.  Stanton  hours  at  a 
sitting,  when  she  was  presiding  over  a 
public  meeting  in  the  Cooper  I'nion, 
when  the  bra/en  women  who  have 
brought  such  bad  fame  to  the  Wom 
an's  Rights  movement  were-  Irving  to 
secure  '  the  floor.'  and  gaunt  fanatics 
of  my  own  sex  \\ere  contending  with 
them"  for  that  '  privilege,'  and  the-  mob 
were  hissing  or  shouting,  and  the  tact 
with  which  Mrs.  Stanton  managed  that 
whole  assembly  was  a  marvel.  Kx- 
cept  Henry  ('lay.  of  Kentucky,  and 
Kdward  Stanly,  formerly  of  '  North 
Carolina  and  now  ol  C.dilornia,  she  is 
the  best  presiding  otlicer  I  have  ever 

seen. 


ALICE    CAKY. 


"  And  that  nice  little  person  with 
short  curls,  so  admirably  dressed,  and 
self-sufficient,  and  handsome,  not  beau 
tiful  ;  her  tout  ensemble  a  combination 
of  author,  artist,  actor  —  strong  as  a 
young  man  and  sensitive  as  a  young 
woman  —  is  Anna  Dickinson.  And 
there,  with  so  thoughtful  a  face,  sits 
Mary  L.  Booth,  industrious  and  accu 
rate  translator  of  huge  volumes  of 
French  history  and  science,  and  now 
editor  of  '  Harper's  Bazar.'  Her  con 
versation  is  an  intellectual  treat.  And 
there  is  Madame  Le  Vert,  of  Mobile, 
who  in  English  and  American  society 
lias  so  long  held  the  place  of  '  t/ic  most 
charming  "woman,'  without  arousing 
the  envy  of  any  other  woman,  and  who, 
therefore,  must  have  an  exceptional 
temperament ;  a  lady  who  never  says  a 
very  wise,  or  witty,  or  weak,  or  foolish 
thing,  but  whom  you  cannot  speak 
with  ten  minutes  without  —  weakly 
and  foolishly  it  may  be,  but  delight 
fully —  feeling  yourself  to  be  both  wise 
and  witty.  'It  is  not  always  May,' 
even  with  Madame  Le  Vert.  She  has 
had  losses  and  disappointments,  and 
physical  pain,  and  is  no  longer  young, 
but  she  does  marvelously  draw  the 
summer  of  her  soul  through  the  au 
tumn  months  of  her  years.  But  space 
would  fail  if  each  lady  were  particu 
larly  described,  from  Kate  Field,  the 
brilliant  journalist  and  lecturer,  and 
'Jennie  June  '  (Mrs.  Croly  of  '  Demor- 
est's  Magazine  '),  and  Mary  E.  Dodge, 
of  •  Hearth  and  Home,'  who  wrote 
k  Hans  Brinker's  Silver  Skates,'  to  the 
sallow,  self-denying  missionary  sister 
from  Cavalla,  clad  in  the  costume  of 
ten  years  ago,  now  a  stranger  in  her 
own"  land. 

"  Of  the  spiritual  teachers,  all  are 
welcome  at  any  time,  from  the  Roman 
Catholic,  John  Jerome  Hughes,  and 
the  eloquent  Universalist,  Chapin,  to 
the  adjective  -  yet  -  to  -  be  -  discovered 
Frothingham.  The  house  of  the  Gary 
sisters  is  a  Pantheon,  a  Polytechnic 
Institute,  a  room  of  the  Committee  on 
Reconstruction,  a  gathering  place  for 
the  ecclesiastical  and  political  Happy 
Family.  Original  abolitionists  and  ab- 
original  secessionists  meet  pleasantly 
in  a  circle  where  everybody  thinks,  but 
nobody  is  tabooed  for  what  he  tninks. 

"  A  great  city  is  generally  a  mass  of 


cold,  but  there  are  always  '  warm 
places  '  even  in  a  huge  metropolis  ;  and 
strangers  are  peculiarly  endowed  with 
the  instinct  for  detecting  them.  It  is 
genuine  goodness  that  does  the  warm 
ing.  And  this  house  is  never  cold  ! 

"  Thus  is  shown  that  these  sisters 
are  authors  of  more  than  books.  Their 
influence  in  their  home  is  beautiful 
and  conservative  and  preservative. 

"  May  they  live  forever  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 
ALICE   GARY.  —  THE   WOMAN. 

YEARS  ago,  in  an  old  academy  in 
Massachusetts,  its  preceptor  gave  to  a 
young  girl  a  poem  to  learn  for  a 
Wednesday  exercise.  It  began,  — 

"  Of  all  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on   Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 
That  seemeth  best  of  all." 

After  the  girl  had  recited  the  poem  to 
her  teacher,  he  told  her  that  Edgar 
Poe  had  said,  and  that  lie  himself  con 
curred  in  the  opinion,  that*  in  rhythm 
it  was  one  of  the  most  perfect  lyrics  in 
the  English  language.  He  then  pro 
ceeded  to  tell  the  story  of  the  one  who 
wrote  it — of  her  life  in  her  Western 
home,  of  the  fact  that  she  and  her  sis 
ter  Phoebe  had  come  to  New  York  to 
seek  their  fortune,  and  to  make  a  place 
for  themselves  in  literature.  It  fell 
like  a  tale  of  romance  on  the  girl's 
heart  ;  and  from  that  hour  she  saved 
every  utterance  that  she  could  find  of 
Alice  Carv's,  and  spent  much  time 
thinking  about  her,  till  in  a  dim  way 
she  came  to  seem  like  a  much-loved 
friend. 

In  1857  the  school  girl,  then  a 
woman,  whom  actual  life  had  already 
overtaken,  sat  for  the  first  time  in  a 
New  York  drawing-room,  and  looked 
with  attentive  but  by  no  means  dazzled 
eyes  upon  a  gathering  assembly.  It 
does  not  follow,  because  a  person  has 
done  something  remarkable,  that  he  is, 
therefore,  remarkable  or  even  pleasant 
to  look  upon.  Thus  it  happened  that 
the  young  woman  had  numerous  clis- 


28 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE   AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


appointments  that  evening,  as  one  by 
one  names  famous  in  literature  and  art 
were  pronounced,  and  their  owners  for 
the  first  tfme  took  on  the  semblance  of 
flesh  and  blood  before  her.  Presently 
came  into  the  room,  and  sat  down  be 
side  her,  a  lady,  whose  eyes,  in  their 
first  glance,  and  whose  voice,  in  its  first 
low  tone,  won  her  heart.  Soft,  sad, 
tender  eyes  they  were,  and  the  face 
from  which  they  shone  was  lovely.  Its 
features  were  fine,  its  complexion  a 
colorless  olive,  lit  with  the  lustrous 
brown  eyes,  softened  still  more  by 
masses  of  waving  dark  hair,  then  un 
touched  of  gray,  and,  save  by  its  own 
wealth,  wholly  unadorned.  Her  dress 
was  as  harmonious  as  her  face.  It  was 
of  pale  gray  satin,  trimmed  with  folds 
of  ruby  velvet ;  a  dress  like  herself  and 
her  life — soft  and  sad  in  the  back 
ground,  bordered  with  brightness. 
This  was  Alice  Gary.  Even  then  her 
face  was  a  history,  not  a  prophecy. 
Even  then  it  bore  the  record  of  past 
suffering,  and  in  the  tender  eyes  there 
still  lingered  the  shadow  of  many  van 
ished  dreams.  Thus  the  story  of  the 
old  academy  was  made  real  and  doubly 
beautiful  to  the  stranger.  The  Alice 
Gary  whom  she  had  imagined  had 
never  been  quite  so  lovely  as  the  Alice 
Gary  whom  she  that  moment  saw. 
That  evening  began  a  friendship  be 
tween  two  women  on  which,  till  its 
earthly  close,  no  shadow  ever  fell. 

As  1  sit  here  thinking  of  her,  I  realize 
how  futile  will  be  any  effort  of  mine  to 
make  a  memorial  worthy  of  my  friend. 
The  woman  in  herself'  so  far  trans 
cended  any  work  of  art  that  she  ever 
wrought,  any  song  (sweet  as  her  songs 
were)  that  she  ever  sung,  that  even  to 
attempt  to  put  into  words  what  she  was 
seems  hopeless.  Yet  it  is  an  act  of  jus 
tice,  no  less  than  of  love,  that  one  who 
knew  her  in  the  sanctuary  of  her  life 
should,  at  least,  partly  lift  the  veil 
which  ever  hung  between  the  lovely 
soul  and  the  world  ;  that  the  women  o'f 
this  land  may  see  more  clearly  the  sis 
ter  whom  they  have  lost,  who,  in  what 
she  was  herself,  was  so  much  more 
than  in  what  she  in  mortal  weakness 
was  able  to  do — at  once  an  example 
and  glory  to  American  womanhood.  It 
must  ever  remain  a  grief  to  those  who 
knew  her  and  loved  her  best,  that  such 


a  soul  as  hers  should  have  missed  its 
highest  earthly  reward  ;  but,  if  she  can 
still  live  on  as  an  incentive  and  a  friend 
to  those  who  remain,  she  at  least  is  com 
forted  now  for  all  she  suffered  and  all 
she  missed  here. 

The  life  of  one  woman  who  has  con 
quered  her  own  spirit,  who,  alone  .and 
unassisted,  through  the  mastery  of  her 
own  will,  has  wrought  out  from  the 
hardest  and  most  adverse  conditions  a 
pure,  sweet,  and  noble  life,  placed  her 
self  among  the  world's  workers,  made 
her  heart  and  thought  felt  in  ten  thou 
sand  unknown  homes  —  the  life  of  one 
such  woman  is  worth  more  to  all  living 
women,  proves  more  for  the  possibili 
ties  of  womanhood,  for  its  final  and 
finest  advancement,  its  ultimate  recog 
nition  and  highest  success,  than  ten 
thousand  theories  or  eloquent  orations 
on  the  theme.  Such  a  woman  was 
Alice  Gary.  Mentally  and  spiritually 
she  was  especially  endowed  with  the 
rarest  gifts  ;  but  no  less,  the  lowliest 
of  all  her  sisters  may  take  on  new 
faith  and  courage  from  her  life.  It  may 
not  be  for  you  to  sing  till  the  whole 
land  listens,  but  it  is  in  your  power,  in 
a  narrower  sphere,  to  emulate  the  traits 
which  brought  the  best  success  to  her 
in  her  wider  life. 

Many  personally  impress  us  with  the 
fact  that  they  have  wrought  into  the 
forms  of  art  the  very  best  in  them 
selves.  Whatever  they  may  have  em 
bodied  in  form,  color,  or  thought,  we 
are  sure  that  it  is  the  most  that  they 
have  to  give,  and  in  giving  that,  they 
are  by  so  much  themselves  impover 
ished.  In  their  own  souls  they  hold 
nothing  rarer  in  reserve.  The  oppo 
site  was  true  of  Alice  Gary.  You 
could  not  know  her  without  learning 
that  the  woman  in  herself  was  far 
greater  and  sweeter  than  anything  that 
she  had  ever  produced.  You  could  not 
sit  by  her  side,  listening  to  the  low, 
slow  outflow  of  her  thought,  without 
longing  that  she  might  yet  find  the 
condition  which  would  enable  her  to 
give  it  a  fuller  and  finer  expression 
than  had  ever  yet  been  possible.  You 
could  not  feel  day  by  day  the  blended 
strength,  generosity,  charity,  and  ten 
derness  of  the  living  woman,  without 
longing  that  a  soul  so  complete  might 
yet  make  an  impression  on  the  nation 


THE    WOMAN  AND    THE  POET. 


to  which  it  was  born,  that  could  never 
fade  away.  Her  most  powerful  trait, 
the  one  which  seemed  the  basis  of  her 
entire  character,  was  her  passion  for 
justice,  for  in  its  intensity  it  rose  to  the 
height  of  a  passion.  Her  utmost  ca 
pacity  for  hate  went  out  toward  every 
form  of  oppression.  If  she  ever 
seemed  overwrought,  it  was  for  some 
wrong  inflicted  on  somebody,  very 
rarely  on  herself.  She  wanted  every 
thing,  the  meanest  little  bug  at  her 
feet,  to  have  its  chance,  all  the  chance 
of  its  little  life.  That  this  so  seldom 
could  be,  in  this  distorted  world,  was 
the  abiding  grief  of  her  life.  Early 
she  ceased  to  suffer  chiefly  for  her 
self  ;  but  to  her  latest  breath  she 
suffered  for  the  sorrows  of  others. 
Phoebe  truly  said  :  "Constituted  as  she 
was,  it  was  not  possible  for  her  to  help 
taking  upon  herself,  not  only  all  the 
sorrows  of  her  friends,  but  in  some 
sense  the  tribulation  and  anguish  that 
cometh  upon  every  son  and  daughter 
of  Adam.  She  was  even  unto  the  end 
planning  great  projects  for  the  benefit 
of  suffering  humanity,  and  working 
with  her  might  to  be  helpful  to  those 
near  her  ;  and  when  it  seemed  impos 
sible  that  one  suffering  herself  such 
manifold  afflictions  could  think  even 
of  the  needs  of  others.'' 

It  was  this  measureless  capacity  to 
know  and  feel  everything  that  con 
cerns  human  nature,  this  pity  for  all, 
this  longing  for  justice  and  mercy  to 
the  lowest  and  the  meanest  thing  that 
could  breathe  and  suffer  —  this  large 
ness  lifting  her  above  all  littleness  — 
this  universality  of  soul,  which  made 
her  in  herself  great  as  she  was  tender. 
Such  a  soul  could  not  fail  to  feel,  with 
deepest  intensity,  every  sorrow  and 
wrong  inflicted  upon  her  own  sex. 
She  loved  women  with  a  fullness  of 
sympathy  and  tenderness  never  sur 
passed.  She  felt  pity  for  their  infirm 
ities,  and  pride  in  their  successes, 
feeling  each  to  be  in  part  her  own. 
Believing  that  in  wifehood,  mother 
hood,  and  home,  woman  found  her 
surest  and  holiest  estate,  all  the  more 
for  this  belief,  her  whole  being  re 
belled  against  the  caste  in  sex,  which 
would  prescribe  the  development  of 
any  individual  soul,  which  would  lay  a 
single  obstacle  in  the  way  of  a  toiling 


and  aspiring  human  being,  which 
would  degrade  her  place  in  the  human 
race,  because,  with  all  her  aspiration, 
toil,  and  suffering,  she  wore  the  form 
of  woman.  Every  effort  having  for  its 
object  the  help,  advancement,  and  full 
enfranchisement  of  woman  from  every 
form  of  injustice,  in  Church,  State,  ed 
ucation,  or  at  home,  had  her  com- 
pletest  sympathy  and  cooperation.  Yet 
she  said  :  "  I  must  work  in  my  own 
way,  and  that  is  a  very  quiet  one.  My 
health,  habits,  and  temperament  make 
it  impossible  that  I  should  mix  in 
crowds,  or  act  with  great  organizations. 
I  must  say  my  little  say,  and  do  my 
little  do,  at  home  !  "  These  words 
add  interest  to  the  fact  that  Alice  Gary 
was  the  first  President  of  the  first 
Woman's  Club  (now  called  Sorosis) 
formed  in  New  York.  The  entire  his 
tory  of  her  relation  with  it  is  given  in 
a  private  letter  from  Mrs.  Jenny  C. 
Croly,  written  since  the  death  of  Alice 
and  Phoebe.  As  a  testimonial  of  af 
fection  to  them  from  a  woman  whom 
both  sisters  honored  and  loved,  and  as 
the  history  of  how  Alice  Gary  became 
President  of  a  Woman's  Club,  which 
no  other  person  could  write,  I  take  the 
liberty  of  quoting  from  this  letter. 

Mrs.  Croly  says  :  "  Alice  particularly 
I  loved,  and  thank  God  for  ever  having 
known  ;  she  was  so  large  and  all-em 
bracing  in  her  kindliness  and  charity, 
that  her  place  must  remain  vacant  ; 
few  women  exist  who  could  fill  it. 

"  Much  as  those  of  us  who  knew  the 
sisters  thought  we  loved  them,  few 
realized  the  gap  it  would  make  in  our 
lives  when  they  were  gone.  Their 
loyalty,  their  truth,  their  ste'adfastness, 
their  genial  hospitality,  their  warmth 
of  friendship,  their  devotion  to  each 
other,  —  the  beautiful  utterances  of 
their  quiet,  patient,  yet  in  some  re 
spects,  suffering  lives,  which  found 
their  way  to  the  world,  all  belonged  to 
them,  and  seem  almost  to  have  died 
with  them. 

"  It  breaks  my  heart  to  remember 
how  hard  Phoebe  tried  to  be  '  brave ' 
after  Alice's  death,  as  she  thought  her 
sister  would  wish  to  have  her ;  how 
she  opened  the  windows  to  let  in  the 
sunlight,  filled  her  room  with  flowers, 
refused  to  put  on  mourning,  because 
Alice  had  requested  her  not  to  do  so, 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   FHCEBE    CARY. 


and  tried  to  interest  herself  in  general 
schemes  and  plans  for  the  advance 
ment  of  women.  But  it  was  all  of  no 
use.  She  simply  could  not  live  after 
Alice  was  gone.  '  I  do  not  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me,'  she  said  to  me 
on  one  occasion  ;  '  I  have  lain  down, 
and  it  seems,  because  Alice  is  not 
there,  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
get  up.  For  thirty  years  I  have  gone 
straight  to  her  bedside  as  soon  as  I 
arose  in  the  morning,  and  wherever 
she  is,  I  am  sure  she  wants  me  now.' 
Could  one  think  of  these  words  with 
out  tears  ? 

"  In  addition  to  the  love  I  felt  for 
them,  I  am  proud  of  these  two  women, 
as  women  whose  isolated  lives  were  so 
simple  and  so  pure,  who  gave  back 
tenderness  and  devotion  and  loving 
charity,  for  the  slights  which  society- 
deals  even  to  gifted,  if  lonely  woman 
hood.  Some  mistaken  impressions 
have  been  obtained  in  regard  to  Alice 
Gary,  in  consequence  of  the  sudden 
termination  of  her  alliance  with  '  Soro- 
sis.'  For  her  connection  with  the  so 
ciety  at  all,  I  alone  am  responsible. 
Some  sort  of  organization  among  wom 
en  was  my  hobby,  and  I  had  discussed 
it  with  her  often  at  her  Sunday  even 
ing  receptions.  She  had  sympathized, 
but  always  refused  to  take  any  active 
part  on  account  of  her  ill  health. 
When  the  society  was  actually  formed, 
therefore,  I  applied  first  to  Mrs.  Par- 
ton  to  become  its  President,  a  post 
which  she  at  first  accepted,  and  after 
wards  refused  for  a  personal  reason. 
Desirous  of  having  a  literary  club,  with 
the  name  of  a  distinguished  literary 
woman,  I  begged  Alice  Gary  to  accept 
the  position. "She  found  it  difficult  to 
refuse  my  urgent  entreaties,  but  did 
so,  until  I  rose  in  great  agitation,  say 
ing,  '  Alice  Gary,  think  what  faith,  rev 
erence,  and  affection  thousands  of 
women  have  given  to  you,  and  you  will 
not  even  give  to  them  your  name.'  I 
left  the  house  hastily,  and  went  back  to 
my  office,  concealing  hot  tears  of  grief 
and  disappointment  behind  my  veil. 
A  moment  after  I  arrived  there,' to  my 
astonishment  she  came  in,  sank  down 
in  a  chair,  breathless  with  her  haste, 
and  said,  '  If  my  name  is  worth  any 
thing  to  woman,  I  have  come  to  tell 
you  to  take  it.'  For  answer  I  knelt 


down  at  her  feet,  and  kissed  her  hand 
over  and  over  again.  Dear  Alice 
Gary  !  only  the  argument  that  she  was 
withholding  something  she  could  give 
had  any  weight  with  her." 

Alice  took  her  seat  as  President  of 
the  Woman's  Club,  but  from  ill  health 
and  an  instinctive  disinclination  person 
ally  to  fill  any  place  publicly,  she  very 
soon  resigned.  Nevertheless,  though 
at  times  she  differed  from  special  meth 
ods  adopted  by  its  meml  ers,  the  Wom 
an's  Club  (Sorosis),  in  its  original  in 
tent,  and  in  its  possibilities  as  a  source 
of  mutual  culture  and  help  to  women, 
always  had  her  sympathy  to  her  dying 
day.  Her  address  on  taking  the  chair 
of  the  Woman's  Club,  unique  and  en 
tirely  characteristic,  I  give  as  the  first 
and  last  speech  ever  made  by  Alice 
Gary  on  a  public  occasion.  Yet  this 
public  occasion  of  hers  was  a  most  ge 
nial  and  gracious  one.  In  the  sumptuous 
parlor  of  Uelmonico's,  in  an  easy  chair, 
sat  Alice  Gary,  surrounded  by  a  party 
of  ladies,  while  she  read  to  them  in  her 
lowr.  forceful  tones  the  words  of  her  ad 
dress.  Not  an  ungraceful  or  unfeminine 
thing  was  this  to  do,  even  the  most  prej 
udiced  must  acknowledge.  '"  I  believe 
in  it,"  she  said  afterwards,  "especially 
for  any  one  who  works  best  in  concert 
with  others,  and  to  whom  the  attrition 
and  stimulus  of  contact  with  other 
minds  is  necessary.  To  many  women 
such  a  weekly  convocation  will  be  of 
the  highest  advantage,  but  so  tar  as  I 
personally  am  concerned,  I  enjoy  bet 
ter  sitting  up-stairs,  chatting  with  a 
friend,  while  I  trim  a  cap  for  Aunt 
Lamson." 

But  here  is  the  speech  :  — 

LADIES,  —  As  it  will  not  be  expected 
of  me  to  make  speeches  very  often, 
hereafter,  I  think  I  may  presume  on 
your  indulgence,  if  I  take  advantage  of 
this  one  opportunity.  Permit  me,  then, 
in  the  first  place,  to  thank  you  for  the 
honor  you  have  done  me  in  assigning 
to  me  the  President's  chair.  Why  I 
should  have  been  chosen,  when  there 
are  so  many  among  you  greatly  more 
competent  to  fill  the  position,  I  am  at 
a  loss  to  understand  :  unless,  indeed,  it 
be  owing  to  the  fact  that  I  am  to  most 
of  you  a  stranger,  and  your  imaginations 
have  clothed  me  with  qualities  not  my 


ALICE  AT  THE    WOMAN'S   CLUB. 


due.  This  you  would  soon  discover 
for  yourselves  ;  I  mention  it  only  to 
bespeak  your  forbearance,  though  in 
this  regard,  I  ventured  almost  to  antic 
ipate  your  lenity,  inasmuch  as  you  all 
know  how  untrained  to  business  habits, 
how  ignorant  of  rules,  and  how  unused 
to  executive  management  most  women 
are. 

If  I  take  my  seat,  therefore,  without 
confidence,  it  is  not  without  the  hope 
of  attaining,  through  your  generous 
kindness  and  encouragement,  to  better 
things.  "  A  Woman's  Club  !  Whoever 
heard  of  the  like!  What,  do  women 
want  of  a  Club  ?  Have  you  any  aims 
or  objects  ? "  These  are  questions 
which  have  been  propounded  to  me  day 
after  day.  since  this  project  was  set 
afoot  —  by  gentlemen,  of  course.  And 
I  have  answered,  that,  in  our  humble 
way,  we  were  striving  to  imitate  their 
example.  You  have  your  exclusive 
clubs,  I  have  said,  and  why  should  not 
we  have  ours  ?  What  is  so  promotive 
of  your  interests  cannot  be  detrimental 
to  us  ;  and  that  you  find  these  reunions 
helpful  to  yourselves,  and  beneficial  to 
society,  we  cannot  doubt. 

You,  gentlemen,  profess  to  be  our 
representatives,  to  represent  us  better 
than  we  could  possibly  represent  our 
selves  ;  therefore,  we  argue,  it  cannot 
be  that  you  are  attracted  by  grand 
rooms,  fine  furniture,  luxurious  dinners 
and  suppers,  expensive  wines  and  ci 
gars,  the  bandying  of  poor  jests,  or  the 
excitement  of  the  gaming  table.  Such 
dishonoring  suspicions  as  these  are  not 
to  be  entertained  for  a  moment. 

Of  our  own  knowledge,  I  have  said, 
we  are  not  able  to  determine  what  spe 
cial  agencies  you  employ  for  your  ad 
vantage  and  ours,  in  your  deliberative 
assemblies,  for  it  has  not  been  thought 
best  for  our  interests  that  we  should 
even  sit  at  your  tables,  much  less  to 
share  your  councils ;  and  doubtless, 
therefore,  in  our  blindness  and  igno 
rance,  we  have  made  some  pitiful  mis 
takes. 

In  the  first  place,  we  have  "tipped 
the  tea-pot."  This  is  a  hard  saying,  the 
head  and  front  of  the  charges  brought 
against  us,  and  we  cannot  but  acknowl 
edge  its  justice  and  its  force  ;  we  are, 
in  fact,  weighed  down  with  shame  and 
humiliation,  and  impelled,  while  we  are 


about  it,  to  make  full  and  free  confes 
sion  of  all  our  wild  -and  guilty  fantasies. 
We  have,  then,  to  begin  at  the  begin 
ning,  proposed  the  inculcation  of  deeper 
and  broader  ideas  among  women,  pro 
posed  to  teach  them  to  think  for  them 
selves,  and  get  their  opinions  at  first 
hand,  not  so  much  because  it  is  their 
right,  as  because  it  is  their  duty.  We 
have  also  proposed  to  open  out  new 
avenues  of  employment  to  women,  to 
make  them  less  dependent  and  less 
burdensome,  to  lift  them  out  of  un 
womanly  self-distrust  disqualifying  dif 
fidence,  into  womanly  self-respect  and 
self-knowledge  ;  to  teach  each  one  to 
make  all  work  honorable  by  doing  the 
share  that  falls  to  her,  or  that  she  may 
work  out  to  herself  agreeably  to  her 
own  special  aptitude,  cheerfully  and 
faithfully,  not  going  down  to  it,  but 
bringing  it  up  to  her.  We  have  pro 
posed  to  enter  our  protest  against  all 
idle  gossip,  against  all  demoralizing 
and  wicked  waste  of  time  ;  also  against 
the  follies  and  tyrannies  of  fashion, 
against  all  external  impositions  and 
disabilities  ;  in  short,  against  each  and 
every  thing  that  opposes  the  full  de 
velopment  and  use  of  the  faculties  con 
ferred  upon  us  by  our  Creator. 

We  have  proposed  to  lessen  the 
antagonisms  existing  at  present  be 
tween  men  and  women,  by  the  use  of 
every  rightful  means  in  our  power;  by 
standing  upon  our  divine  warranty,  and 
saying  and  doing  what  we  are  able  to 
say  and  to  do,  without  asking  leave,  and 
without  suffering  hindrance  ;  not  for 
the  exclusive  good  of  our  own  sex,  for 
we  hold  that  there  is  no  exclusive,  and 
no  separate  good  ;  what  injures  my 
brother  injures  me,  and  what  injures 
me  injures  him,  if  he  could  but  be  made 
to  know  it;  it  injures  him,  whether  or 
not  he  is  made  to  know  it.  Such,  I 
have  said,  are  some  of  our  objects  and 
aims.  We  do  not  pretend,  as  yet,  to  have 
carefully  digested  plans  and  clearly  de 
fined  courses.  We  are  as  children  feel 
ing  our  way  in  the  dark,  for  it  must  be 
remembered  that  it  is  not  yet  half  a 
century  since  the  free  schools,  even  in 
the  most  enlightened  portions  of  our 
country,  were  first  opened  to  girls. 
How,  then,  should  you  expect  of  us  the 
fullness  of  wisdom  which  you  for  whole 
centuries  have  been  gathering  from 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


schools,  colleges,  and  the  exclusive 
knowledge  and  management  of  affairs  ! 

We  admit  our  short-comings,  but  we 
do  feel,  gentlemen,  that  in  spite  of 
them,  an  honest,  earnest,  and  unosten 
tatious  effort  toward  broader  culture 
and  nobler  life  is  entitled  to  a  heartier 
and  more  sympathetic  recognition  than 
we  have  as  yet  received  from  you  any 
where  ;  even  our  representatives  here 
at  home,  the  leaders  of  the  New  York 
press,  have  failed  in  that  magnanimity 
which  we  have  been  accustomed  to  at 
tribute  to  them. 

If  we  could  have  foreseen  the  sneers 
and  sarcasms  with  which  we  have  been 
met,  they  of  themselves  would  have 
constituted  all-sufficient  reasons  for  the 
establishment  of  this  Woman's  Club  ; 
as  it  is,  they  have  established  a  strong 
impulse  towards  its  continuance  and 
final  perpetuity.  But,  ladies,  these 
sneers  and  sarcasms  are,  after  all, 
but  so  many  acknowledgments  of  our 
power,  and  should  and  will  stimulate 
us  to  braver  assertion,  to  more  persist 
ent  effort  toward  thorough  and  harmoni 
ous  organization;  and  concert  and  har 
mony  are  all  that  we  need  to  make  this 
enterprise,  ultimately,  a  great  power 
for  good.  Indeed,  with  such  women 
as  have  already  enrolled  their  names 
on  our  list,  I,  for  my  part,  cannot  be 
lieve  failure  possible. 

Some  of  us  cannot  hope  to  see  great 
results,  for  our  feet  are  already  on  the 
downhill  side  of  life  ;  the  shadows  are 
lengthening  behind  us  and  gathering 
before  us,  and  ere  long  they  will  meet 
and  close,  and  the  places  that  have 
known  us,  know  us  no  more.  But  if, 
when  our  poor  work  is  done,  any  of 
those  who  come  after  us  shall  find  in 
it  some  hint  of  usefulness  toward  no 
bler  lives,  and  better  and  more  endur 
ing  work,  we,  for  ourselves,  rest  con 
tent. 

The  love,  sympathy,  and  pity  which 
Alice  felt  for  the  whole  human  race, 
she  lavished  with  concentrated  power 
on  those  near  to  her,  the  members  of 
her  own  family,  and  all  who  had  been 
drawn  into  the  inner  circle  of  her  per 
sonal  life.  She  had  not  a  relative  who 
did  not  share  her  solicitude  and  care. 
Of  her  young  nieces,  the  daughters  of 
Rowena  and  Susan  Gary,  she  was  es 


pecially  fond.  The  house  on  Twenti 
eth  Street  was  often  graced  and  bright 
ened  by  their  presence,  and  one,  "  lit 
tle  Alice,"  grew  up  almost  as  an  own 
daughter  in  her  home,  giving  in  return, 
to  both  her  aunts  to  their  latest  hour, 
a  filial  devotion  and  tenderness  which 
the  most  loving  daughter  never  sur 
passed. 

No  child  ever  called  her  mother,  yet 
to  the  end  of  life  the  heart  of  mother 
hood  beat  strong  within  her  breast. 
Her  love  for  children  never  grew  faint. 
She  was  especially  fond  of  little  girls, 
and  was  wont  to  send  for  her  little 
friends  to  come  and  spend  a  day  with 
her.  This  was  a  high  privilege,  but 
any  little  girl  that  came  was  at  once 
put  at  her  ease,  and  felt  perfectly  at 
home.  She  took  the  individuality  of 
each  child  into  her  heart,  and  repro 
duced  it  in  her  intercourse  with  it,  and 
in  her  songs  and  stones. 

Her  little  girl  visitors  were  some 
times  silent  ones.  Going  into  her 
room  one  day,  there  was  a  row  of  pho 
tographs,  all  little  girls,  arranged  be 
fore  her  on  her  desk. 

"  Whose  little  girls  ?  "  was  the  eager 
question. 

'''•Mine  !  "  was  the  answer,  breaking 
into  a  laugh.  "  They  are  all  Alice 
Carys  ;  take  your  choice.  The  only 
trouble  they  make  me  is,  I  can't  possi 
bly  get  time  to  write  to  them  all, 
though  I  do  try  to,  to  the  babies' 
mothers."  All  had  been  sent  by  stran 
gers,  fathers  and  mothers,  photographs 
of  the  children  named  "  Alice  Gary." 

It  is  this  real  love  for  children,  as 
children,  which  has  given  to  both  Al 
ice  and  Phoebe  Gary's  books  for  little 
folks,  such  genuine  and  abiding  popu 
larity. 

No  more  touching  proof  could  be 
given  of  Alice  Gary's  passionate  sym 
pathy  with  child  nature,  than  her  nev 
er-waning  love  for  her  own  little  sister 
Lucy.  Though  but  three  years  old 
when  she  passed  away,  the  impress  of 
her  child-soul  was  as  vivid  and  power 
ful  in  her  sister's  heart  after  the  lapse 
of  thirty  changeful  years,  as  on  the 
day  that  she  died.  It  was  more  than 
sister  mourning  for  sister,  it  was  the 
woman  yearning  for  the  child  whose 
vacant  place  in  her  life  no  other  child 
had  ever  filled.  The  following  lines, 


ALICE'S  LOVE   OF  CHILDREN. 


33 


more  than  Wordsworthian  in  their  bare 
simplicity,  are  an  unfeigned  utterance 
of  her  deepest  heart. 

MY    LITTLE    ONE. 

At  busy  morn  —  at  quiet  noon  — 
At  evening  sad  and  still, 

As  wayward  as  the  lawless  mist 
That  wanders  where  it  will, 
She  comes  —  my  little  one. 

I  cannot  have  a  dream  so  wrought 

Of  nothings,  nor  so  wild 
With  fantasies,  but  she  is  there, 

My  heavenly-human  child  — 

My  glad,  gay  little  one. 

She  never  spake  a  single  word 

Of  wisdom,  I  agree  ; 
I  loved  her  not  for  what  she  was, 

But  what  she  was  to  me  — 

My  precious  little  one. 

You  might  not  call  her  beautiful, 
Nor  haply  was  she  so  ; 

I  loved  her  for  the  loveliness 
That  I  alone  could  know  — 
My  svveet-souled  little  one. 

I  say  I  loved,  but  that  is  wrong  ; 

As  if  the  love  could  change 
Because  my  dove  hath  got  her  wings, 

And  taken  wider  range  ! 

Forgive,  my  little  one. 

I  still  can  see  her  shining  curls 

All  tremulously  fair, 
Like  fifty  yellow  butterflies 

A-fluttering  in  the  air  : 

My  angel  little  one. 

1  see  her  tender  mouth,  her  eyes, 
Her  garment  softly  bright, 

Like  some  fair  cloud  about  the  morn 
With  roses  all  a-light : 
My  deathless  little  one. 

She  had,  in  full,  the  keen  sensitive 
ness  of  the  poetic  temperament.  A 
harsh  tone,  even,  would  bring  tears 
into  her  eyes  ;  a  cold  look  would  haunt 
her  for  days.  It  was  an  absolute  grief 
to  her  to  differ  in  opinion  from  any  one 
she  loved,  although  with  her  intensity 
of  conviction  this  was  sometimes  inev 
itable.  It  pained  her  if  two  friends 
rose  to  any  heat  of  temper  in  argument. 
3 


!  If  this  ever  occurred  in  her  own  parlor, 
I  though  it  rarely  did,  she  would  refer  to 
I  it  with  a  pained  regret  for  weeks  after 
wards.  This  fine  sensitiveness  of  tem 
perament  was  manifested  in  her  ex 
treme  personal  modesty,  which,  to  the 
end  of  her  life,  impelled  her  to  shrink 
from  all  personal  publicity,  and  to  avoid 
everything  which  could  attract  attention 
to  herself.  She  felt  strong  in  rectitude, 
in  her  sense  of  justice,  in  her  will  to  do 
for  herself  and  others  ;  but,  in  compari 
son  with  her  friends,  always  plain  and 
poor  and  lowly  in  person,  attainment, 
and  performance.  Her  standard  of  ex 
cellence,  both  in  character  and  in  work, 
was  too  high  to  admit  of  self-satisfac 
tion.  Her  ideals  in  all  things  were 
absolutely  perfect.  She  took  no  pride 
in  them.  She  only  sighed  that  with  all 
her  striving  she  could  not  reach  them. 
No  better  proof  could  be  given  of 
the  lack  of  self-consciousness  in  both 
sisters,  than  the  absence  of  all  personal 
diaries,  letters,  and  allusions  to  them 
selves  among  their  effects.  Amid  the 
mass  of  their  papers  which  remain,  not 
a  written  line  has  either  sister  left  re 
ferring  personally  to  herself.  They 
held  the  humblest  opinion  of  their  own 
epistolary  powers,  probably  never  wrote 
a  letter  in  their  lives  for  the  mere  sake 
of  writing  it,  while  they  periodically 
sent  requests  to  their  friends  to  burn 
all  letters  from  them  in  their  posses 
sion.  Thus,  amid  their  large  circle  of 
friends,  very  few  letters  remain,  and 
nearly  all  of  these  are  of  too  personal  a 
character  to  admit  of  extracts.  Alice 
never  wrote  a  letter  save  on  business, 
or  to  a  person  whom  she  loved.  These 
letters  were  written  in  snatches  of  time 
between  her  tasks  at  early  morning,  or 
in  the  evening.  She  had  no  leisure  to 
discuss  art,  or  new  books,  seldom  cur 
rent  events.  The  letter  was  always  a 
direct  message  from  her  heart  to  her 
i  friend.  In  nothing,  save  in  her  self- 
I  denial  for  their  sakes,  did  she  manifest 
her  brooding  tenderness  and  care  for 
!  those  she  loved,  more  than  in  her  per- 
j  sonal  letters. 

The  following  extracts  from  private 

letters  to  one  person,  give  an  example 

I   of    the  letter  writing  style  which    she 

J   held  in  such  low  esteem,  and  show  what 

!   were    the   direct    utterances    of   Alice 

Gary's  heart  in  private  to  a  friend.    As 


34 


MEMORIAL    OF   ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY, 


the  expression  of  herself  in  a  form  of 
which  so  little  remains,  they  are  full  of 
interest. 

The  first  is  dated  September  3, 
1866:- 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  though 
you  might  think  so.  The  truth  is,  in 
the  first  place,  my  letters  are  very  poor 
affairs,  and  in  the  next,  I  know  it.  So 
you  see  I  do  not  like  to  essay  rny  poor 
powers  in  that  direction  unless  for  a 
special  reason,  and  such  an  one  is  my 
love  for  you.  I  think  of  you  daily,  in 
deed  hourly,  and  wish  you  were  only 
back  among  us.  Can't  you  come  for  a 
little  while  this  winter  ?  ....  Go  on  ! 
We  need  all  the  strong  words  for  the 
right  that  can  be  uttered.  We  never 
needed  them  more,  it  seems  to  me.  I 
am  afraid  you  are  lonesome.  I  know 
how  lonesome  I  used  to  be  in  the  coun 
try  and  alone.  Alone,  I  mean,  so  far 
as  the  society  to  which  one  belongs  is 
concerned.  For  we  all  need  something 
outside  of  ourselves  and  our  immediate 
family.  I  don't  care  how  much  they 
may  be  to  us,  we  require  it  both  for 
mind  and  body. 

"  I  am  here  in  my  own  room,  just 
where  you  left  me.  How  I  wish  you 
could  come  in.  Would  n't  we  talk  ?  I 
see  all  our  old  friends,  but  I  do  so  wish 
for  you. 

"'l  am  very  busy,  never  so  busy  in 
my  life,  but  whether  to  good  purpose 
or  not,  I  cannot  say.  Did  you  read 
my  story  in  the  July  and  August  num 
bers  of  the  '  Atlantic,'  '  The  Great 
Doctor '  ? 

"  My  poems  are  expected  out  this 
fall,  but  not  in  a  shape  to  please  me  ; 
the  cuts  are  dreadfully  done  ;  they  look 
like  frights.  So  things  go,  nothing  quite 
as  we  would  have  it  in  this  world;  let 
us  hope  we  are  nearing  a  better  coun 
try.  I  could  tell  you  a  thousand  things, 
but  how  can  I  write  them  ? 

"  You  have  seen  that  poor  Mrs. 

has  passed  from  among  us  ?  Her  poor 
little  struggle  of  a  life  is  ended.  I  trust 
she  has  found  one  more  satisfactory. 
My  struggle  still  goes  on.  I  am  writ 
ing  stories  and  verses  —  I  can't  say 
poems. 

"  Write  me,  my  dear,  just  from  your 
heart." 


"  The  next  letter  bears  the  date  of 
September  17,  1866:  — 

"  My  dear,  I  've  taken  time  by  the 
forelock,  as  they  say.  I  am  up  before 
the  sun. 

"  We  had  an  interesting  company 
last  evening,  among  them  Mr.  Greeley, 
Mr.  Beecher,  and  Robert  Dale  Owen. 
I  thought  of  you,  and  wished  you  here. 
I  am  glad  you  are  at  work  again  ;  you 
must  work,  you  have  every  encour 
agement.  A  word  about  my  story.  I 
had  no  design  to  write  a  word  against 
the  Methodists.  I  believe  them  to  be 
just  as  good  as  any  other  people.  But 
I  had  to  put  my  characters  in  some 
Church,  and  as  I  lived  among  Metho 
dists  in  my  youth,  I  know  much  about 
their  ways.  But  I  have  a  good  Meth 
odist  preacher  to  set  against  my  poor 
one,  as  will  appear  in  due  time.  I 
would  not  do  so  foolish  or  mean  a 
thing  as  to  attempt  to  write  down,  or 
to  write  up,  any  denomination.  There 
is  good  in  all  ;  but  human  nature  is 
human  nature  everywhere. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  kind  offer 
about  my  poems.  I  shall  certainly  re 
member  your  goodness.  I  rifowant  the 
book  to  get  before  the  public,  and  not 
be  left  to  die  in  its  cradle.  I  can  say 
this  much  for  it,  It  is  mine.  It  is 
what  I  have  thought,  what  I  have  seen, 
lived,  and  felt  myself,  not  through 
books,  or  through  other  persons.  I 
have  taken  the  wild  woods,  corn  fields, 
school-houses,  rustic  boys  and  girls, 
whatever  I  know  best  that  has  helped 
to  make  me ;  and  however  poor,  there 
is  the  result. 

"  I  must  see  you  somehow  this 

winter,  and  your  dear  friend  Mrs. , 

whom  I  love  without  having  seen. 

"There  is  breakfast!  God  bless 
you,  and  for  a  little  while,  good-by." 

Another  letter  is  dated  October  21, 
1866:- 

...  .  •'  I  am  afraid  you  are  sick  or 
very  sad,  or  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
heard  from  you.  I  think  of  you  so 
much,  and  always  with  tearful  tender 
ness,  for  our  souls  are  kindred.  I  am 
more  than  half  sick.  My  cough,  since 
the  weather  has  changed,  is  very 


ALICE'S  LETTERS. 


35 


troublesome,  so  that  I  cannot  sleep 
nights,  which  is  dreadful  you  know. 

"  Won't  you  write  and  tell  me  all 
about  yourself  ?  Somehow  I  feel  wor 
ried  about  you,  as  if  there  were  shad 
ows  all  around  you. 

"  The  house  was  full  of  pleasant 
company  last  night,  but  I  was  too  sick 
to  share  it. 

"  I  have  managed  with  Carleton 
about  my  books.  He  has  been  very 
generous  to  me.  I  like  him,  and  you 
will.  I  am  busy  trying  to  do  much 
more  than  I  ought,  but  I  seem  to  be 
driven  by  a  demon  to  that  end,  and  to 
what  purpose  !  Who  cares  for  my 
poor  little  work,  when  it  is  all  done  ! 
What  doth  it  profit  under  the  sun  !  I 
am  sad  to-day,  very  sad,  and  I  ought 
to  go  to  you  only  with  sunshine.  I 
have  just  finished  a  long,  lonely  ballad. 
I  wish  I  could  read  it  to  you.  More 
than  that,  I  wish  I  could  walk  with  you 
in  the  sunshine,  out  among  the  falling 
leaves,  and  say  just  what  comes  into 
my  heart  to  say.  But  you  are  there, 
and  I  am  here,  '  and  the  harbor  bar 
keeps  nearing.' " 

The  following  is  from  a  letter  writ 
ten  a  year  later,  January,  1867  :  — 

"Here  am  I  again,  in  my  corner, 
thinking  of  you  and  of  many  things  of 
which  we  did  not  talk  much.  I  felt  a 
little  hurt,  at  first,  that  I  did  not  see 
you  more,  but  I  do  not  now.  I  know 
that  it  was  just  as  you  say.  Never 
mind,  I  half  think  I  will  come  again,  I 

did  enjoy  the  week  in  so  much. 

I  want  to  begin  just  where  I  left  off. 

Dear  Mrs. ,  she  did  so  much  for 

our  comfort  and  pleasure.  How  I  hope 
to  do  something  for  her  sometime.  And 
Mr. too,  jiovv  I  like  him.  It  al 
ways  did  me  good  to  see  his  bright 
face  come  in  ;  his  very  voice  gave  me 
confidence  and  —  what  word  'shall  I 
use  ?  I  don't  know,  I  only  know  it  al 
ways  helped  me  to  see  him. 

"  I  've  been  working  on  a  little  book 
of  poems,  or  a  proposed  book,  rather, 
all  day  at  my  desk.  It  is  now  nearly 
night,  and  I  am  tired,  but  I  got  on 
pretty  well  ;  that's  some  comfort. 

"  I  have  not  been  well  since  my  re 
turn,  and  the  immense  appetite  I  had 
in ,  I  left  there." 


The  following  bears  a  still  later 
date  :  - 

....."  Thank  you  most  kindly  for 
your  letter.  If  I  had  only  received  it 
earlier,  I  might  have  gone  with  my 

friends  to  ,  but  they  had  already 

left,  and  anyway  it  would  not  have  been 
easy  to  leave,  for  the  house  is  full  of 
visitors.  I  would  like  to  be  with  you 
these  times,  but  you  can't  imagine  how 
busy  I  am,  and  have  to  be,  to  keep 
things  going.  I  have  been  pretty  well 
all  winter,  or  I  don't  know  how  I  should 
have  got  along.  I  have  done  a  great 
deal  of  work,  such  as  it  is.  Tell  me 
what  you  propose  to  do,  and  all  about 
yourself.  First  of  all,  I  hope  you  are 
well ;  that  is  the  great  thing.  We  have 
had  very  pleasant  times  this  winter  ;  I 
have  so  much  wished  you  here  to  help 
us.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  Miss 
Booth  for  the  last  few  months,  and 
like  her  much  ;  have  seen  Ole  Bull  at 
home  and  elsewhere,  and  like  him,  as 
Anna  Dickinson  would  say,  '  exces 
sively  ! '  I  have  seen  much  also  of  the 
McCarthys  of  London.  You  know  and 
like  them  both  ;  so  do  I.  I  do  believe 
I  have  written  my  whole  letter  about 
myself.  Well,  pay  me  back  in  my  own 
coin  :  that  is  all  I  want.  Give  me  some 
of  those  thoughts  which  go  through 
your  mind  and  heart,  when  you  sit 
alone  with  your  cheek  in  your  hand. 

"  Mind,  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
have  not  done  anything  well.  By  no 
means.  But  remember, your  best  work 
you  yet  must  do." 

Another  letter  is  dated  November  24, 
[868  :  - 

"  Your  kind  letter  came  duly.  How 
I  thank  you  for  all  your  affectionate 
thoughts  of  me  !  I  have  been  think 
ing  and  thinking  I  would  write,  but  it 's 
the  old  story,  I  can't  write  anything 
worth  the  reading.  If  we  could  only 
see  each  other  !  But  written  words 
are  so  poor  and  empty  !  at  any  rate 
mine  seem  so,  and  I  have  not  the  gift 
to  make  them  otherwise. 

"  You  have  been  sick  and  sad.  I 
am  so  sorry  for  both,  if  that  could  help 
you.  I  am  not  well,  either.  My  dear 
sick  sister  has  been  with  me  for  two 
months  with  L .  '  Little  Alice  '  is 


.36 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND   PHCEBE    GARY. 


here  now.  I  have  had  transient  visit 
ors  all  the  time, —  two  calls  for  char 
ity  since  I  began  this  letter.  So,  my 
dear,  you  can  see  how  some  of  my 
time,  and  much  of  my  heart  goes. 
You  can  imagine  I  have  written  very 
little,  and  as  for  reading,  my  mind  is 
as  blank  as  an  idol's. 

"  I  hope  to  come  to this  winter, 

and  that  there  we  may  see  one  an 
other  :  but  can't  you  somehow  come  to 
me,  —  so  that  we  might  steal  an  hour 
now  and  then  ?  I  think  it  would  do 
you  good,  I  am  sure  it  would  me.  I 
think  of  you  oftener  than  you  would 
believe.  I  have  not  so  many  friends 
that  I  cannot  keep  them  all  in  my  heart 
all  the  time.  Have  you  made  your 
new  dress  ?  What  are  you  doing  ? 
and  hoping  to  do  ?  Do  write  and  tell 
me,  if  you  can  afford  to  get  in  return 
for  good  letters  such  chaff  as  I  send. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  if  I  only  had  your 
years,  I  would  hope  everything  ;  but 
think  where  I  am  !  So  near  the  night, 
where  no  man  can  work,  nor  woman 
either. 

"  Lastly,  my  clear,  let  me  admonish 
you  to  stand  more  strongly  by  your 
own  nature.  God  gave  it  to  you.  For 
that  reason  alone  you  should  think  well 
of  it,  and  make  the  most  of  it.  I  say 
this  because  I  think  that  your  tender 
conscience  is  a  little  morbid,  as  well  as 
tender.  You  hardly  think  that  you 
have  a  right  to  God's  best  gifts,'  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  free  air  and  sun 
shine.  Your  little  innocent  delights 
you  constantly  buy  at  a  great  cost. 
When  you  have  given  the  loaf,  you 
hardly  think  you  have  a  right  to  the 
crust.  One  part  of  your  nature  is  all 
the  time  set  against  the  other,  and  you 
take  the  self-sacrificing  side.  I  know 
through  what  straits  you  are  dragged. 
You  could  not  be  selfish  if  you  would, 
and  I  would  not  have  you  so,  if  I  could. 
But  I  do  think  that  you  should  compel 
yourself  to  live  a  higher,  more  expan 
sive,  and  expressive  life.  You  are  en 
titled  to  it.  There  is  a  cloud  all  the 
time  between  you  and  the  sun,  and 
even  the  soulless  plants  cannot  live  in 
the  shade.  I  did  not  intend  to  write 
all  this  ;  somehow,  it  seemed  to  write 
itself.  If  I  have  said  more  than  I 
ought,  I  pray  you  pardon  me. 

"•The  day  is  lovely.     I  wish  we  were 


in  the  woods  together,  hearing  the  wind 
in  the  dead  leaves,  and  getting  from 
the  quiet  heart  of  our  mother  earth 
some  of  her  tranquil  rest.  Good-by, 
my  dear.  May  the  Lord-  send  his  an 
gels  to  abide  with  you." 

Many  have  inquired  concerning  her 
belief  in  "Spiritualism."  She  was  a 
spiritualist  in  the  highest  meaning  of 
the  much-abused  term,  as  every  spirit 
ually  minded  person  must  be  in  some 
sense,  and  would  be  if  no  such  thing 
as  professional  Spiritualism  had  ever 
existed.  No  one  can  believe  in  the 
New  Testament,  in  God  himself,  and 
not  be  in  this  sense  a  spiritualist.  One 
cannot  have  faith  in  another  and  better 
world,  and  not  feel  often  that  its  bor 
der  lies  very  near  to  this  ;  so  near, 
indeed,  that  our  lost  ones  who  have 
gone  thither  may  come  back  to  us,  un 
seen,  unheard,  to  walk  as  "  minister 
ing  angels  "  by  our  sides.  This  is 
the  spiritualism  of  Jesus  and  his  dis 
ciples,  and  of  holy  men  and  women  in 
all  ages. 

All  Alice  Gary's  spiritual  faith  is 
uttered  in  these  lines  :  — 

"  Laugh,  you  who  never  had 
Your  dead  come  back  ;  but  do  not  take 

from  me 
The    harmless    comfort  of    my  foolish 

dream  : 

That  these  our  mortal  eyes, 
Which  outwardly  reflect  the  earth  and 

skies, 

Do  introvert  upon  eternity  ; 
And  that  the  shapes  you  deem 
Imaginations  just  as  clearly  fall, 
Each  from  its  own  divine  original, 
And   through   some   subtle  element  of 

light, 

Upon  the  inward  spiritual  eye, 
As   do  the  things  which   round  about 

them  lie, 

Gross   and   material,  on   the   external 
sight." 

She  hated  slavery  in  every  form  ; 
she  was  capable  of  a  burning  indigna 
tion  against  every  type  of  wrong  ;  yet 
in  her  judgment  of  individuals  she  was 
full  of  charity  and  sympathy.  I  once 
expressed  myself  bitterly  toward  a  per 
son  who  had  spoken  of  Alice  most  un 
kindly  and  falsely.  "  You  would  not  feel 


HER   CREED. 


37 


so,  my  dear,  she  said,  "  if  you  knew 
how  unhappy  she  is.  When  I  think 
how  very  unhappy  she  must  be  herself, 
to  be  willing  to  injure  one  who  never 
harmed  her,  I  can  only  pity  her." 

This  intense  tenderness,  this  yearn 
ing  over  everything  human,  with  a  pity 
and  love  inexpressible,  made  the  very 
impulse  and  essence  of  her  being. 
Surely,  in  this  was  she  Christlike.  Our 
Saviour  wept  over  Jerusalem.  How 
many  tears  did  she,  his  disciple,  shed 
for  sorrowing  humanity,  for  suffering 
womanhood.  Nor  were  tears  all  she 
gave.  The  deepest  longing  of  her  life 
was  to  see  human  nature  lifted  from  sin 
to  holiness,  from  misery  to  happiness  ; 
every  thought  that  she  uttered,  every 
deed  she  did,  she  prayed  might  help 
toward  this  end.  To  help  somebody, 
no  matter  how  lowly,  to  comfort  the  af 
flicted,  to  lift  up  the  fallen,  to  share 
every  blessing  of  her  life  with  others, 
to  live  (even  under  the  stress  of  pain 
and  struggle)  a  life  pure,  large,  in  itself 
an  inspiration  —  this,  and  more,  was 
Alice  Gary. 

Filled  with  the  spirit,  and  fulfilling 
the  law  of  the  Master  in  her  daily  life, 
is  it  not  intolerant,  little,  and  even  mean, 
now  she  has  passed  away  forever,  to 
cast  on  the  abstract  creed  of  such  a 
woman  the  shadow  of  question,  much 
less  of  reproach  ? 

Why  should  her  "  Dying  Hymn  "  be 
less  the  hymn  of  a  dying  saint,  if  she 
did  believe  that  the  mercy  of  her  Heav 
enly  Father,  and  the  atonement  of 
Jesus  Christ,  would,  in  the  fullness  of 
eternity,  redeem  from  sin,  and  gather 
into  everlasting  peace,  the  whole  family 
of  man  ?  Justice  tempered  by  love,  the 
supreme  attribute  of  her  own  nature, 
ran  into  her  individual  conception  of 
God,  and  of  his  dealings  with  the  human 
race.  Grieving  over  the  fact  that  ten 
thousands  of  her  fellow  creatures  are 
cursed  in  their  very  birth,  born  into  the 
world  with  the  physical  and  spiritual 
taint  of  depraved  generations  entailed 
upon  them,  with  neither  the  power  nor 
opportunity,  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave,  to  break  the  chains  of  poverty 
and  vice  and  rise  to  purity  :  she  be 
lieved  no  less  that  the  opportunity 
would  come  to  every  human  being,  that 
everything  that  God  had  made  would 
have  its  chance  ;  if  not  in  this  existence, 


then  in  another.  Without  this  faith,  at 
times  human  life  would  have  been  to 
her  intolerable.  It  was  her  soul's  con 
solation  to  say  :  — • 

"  Nay,  but  't  is  not  the  end  : 

God  were    not    God,   if   such  a  thing 

could  be  ; 

If  not  in  time,  then  in  eternity, 
There  must  be  room  for  penitence  to 

mend 

Life's  broken  chance,  else  noise  of  wars 
Would  unmake  heaven." 

Phoebe,  in  settling  the  question  of 
her  religious  faith,  said  :  — 

"Though  singularly  liberal  and  un- 
sectarian  in  her  views,  she  always  pre 
served  a  strong  attachment  to  the 
church  of  her  parents,  and,  in  the  main, 
accepted  its  doctrines.  Caring  little 
for  creeds  and  minor  points,  she  most 
firmly  believed  in  human  brotherhood 
as  taught  by  Jesus  ;  and  in  a  God  whose 
loving  kindness  is  so  deep  and  so  un 
changeable,  that  there  can  never  come 
a  time  to  even  the  vilest  sinner,  in  all 
the  ages  of  eternity,  when  if  he  arise 
and  go  to  Him,  his  Father  will  not  see 
him  afar  off,  and  have  compassion  upon 
him.  In  this  faith,  which  she  has  so 
often  sung,  she  lived  and  wrought  and 
hoped  ;  and  in  this  faith,  which  grew 
stronger,  deeper,  and  more  assured 
with  years  of  sorrow  and  trial  and  sick 
ness,  she  passed  from  death  unto  life." 

The  friends  who  shared  so  long  the 
hospitality  of  her  home,  as  they  turn 
their  eyes  toward  the  closed  doors  of 
that  home,  finally  bereft,  well  as  they 
knew  her  and  truly  as  they  loved  her, 
cannot  dream  of  half  the  plans  for  their 
happiness  and  comfort  that  went  out 
when  that  faithful  heart  ceased  to  beat. 
Nor  was  it-  of  her  friends  only  whom 
she  thought.  Long  after  suffering  had 
separated  her  forever  from  the  active 
world,  she  took  just  as  keen  an  interest 
in  its  great  affairs  as  if  still  participat 
ing  in  them.  Even  when  the  shadows 
of  eternity  were  stealing  over  her,  noth 
ing  that  concerns  this  mortal  life  seemed 
to  her  paltry  or  unimportant.  She 
wanted  all  her  friends  to  come  into  her 
room  and  tell  her  everything  about  the 
life  from  which  she  was  shut  out.  She 
took  the  deepest  interest  in  everything 
human,  from  the  grandest  affair  of  state 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PH(EBE   GARY. 


to  "  poor  old  Mrs.  Brown's  last  cap," 
which  she  persisted  in  making- when  so 
feeble  that  she  could  scarcely  draw  her 
needle  through  its  lace.  Yet  this  inter 
est  in  human  affairs  did  not  shut  from 
her  gaze  the  things  "unseen  and  eter 
nal."  She  said  to  me  one  morning, 
after  a  night  of  suffering,  "  While  you 
are  all  asleep,  I  lie  here  and  think  on 
the  deep  things  of  eternity,  of  the  un 
known  life.  I  find  I  must  leave  it  still 
with  Go'd,  and  trust  Him  !  " 

One  of  the  last  things  she  said  to  me 
was,  "  If  you  could  see  all  the  flowers 
brought  into  this  room  by  friends  piled 
up,  it  seems  to  me  they  would  reach  to 
heaven.  I  am  certainly  going  toward 
it  on  flowery  beds,  if  not  beds  of  ease." 

And  her  last  words  to  me,  with  a 
radiant  smile,  were,  "  When  you  come 
back,  you  will  find  me  so  much  better  I 
shall  come  and  stay  with  you  a  week. 
So  we  won't  say  good-by."  Thus  in  one 
sense  we  never  parted.  Yet  my  only 
regret  in  thinking  of  her,  is  that  life 
with  its  relentless  obligations  withheld 
me  from  her  in  her  very  last  days.  It 
is  one  of  those  unavailing  regrets  on 
which  death  has  set  his  seal,  and  to 
which  time  can  bring  no  reparation. 

For  her  sake  let  me  say  what,  as  a 
worn  in,  she  could  be,  and  was,  to  an 
other.  She  found  me  with  habits  of 
thought  and  of  action  unformed,  and 
with  nearly  all  the  life  of  womanhood 
before  me.  She  taught  me  self  help, 
courage,  and  faith.  She  showed  me 
how  I  might  help  myself  and  help 
others.  Wherever  I  went,  I  carried 
with  me  her  love  as  a  treasure  and  a 
staff.  How  many  times  I  leaned  upon  it 
and  grew  strong.  It  never  fell  from  me. 
It  never  failed  me.  No  nutter  how  life 
might  serve  me,  I  believed  without  a 
doubt  that  her  friendship  would  never 
fail  me  ;  and  it  never  did.  If  I  faltered, 
she  would  believe  in  me  no  less.  If  I 
fell,  her  hand  would  be  the  first  out 
stretched  to  lift  me  up.  All  the  world 
might  forsake  me  ;  yet  would  not  she. 
I  might  become  an  outcast ;  yet  no  less 
would  I  find  in  her  a  shelter  and  a 
friend.  Yet,  saying  this,  I  have  not 
and  said,  have  no  power  to  say,  what 
as  a  soul  I  owe  to  her. 

These  autumn  days  sharpen  the 
keen  sense  of  irreparable  loss.  These 
are  the  days  that  she  loved  ;  in  whose 


balsamic  airs  she  basked,  and  renewed 
her  life  with  ever  fresh  delight.  These 
are  the  days  in  which  she  garnished 
her  house  for  new  reunions,  in  which 
she  drew  nearer  to  nature,  nearer  to 
her  friends,  nearer  to  her  God.  Octo 
ber  is  here,  serene  as  of  old  ;  but  she 
is  not.  Her  house  is  inhabited  by 
strangers.  Her  song  is  hushed.  Her 
true  heart  is  still.  But  life  —  the  vast 
life  whose  mystery  enthralled  her  — 
that  remorselessly  goes  on.  I  laid  a 
flower  on  her  grave  yesterday  ;  so  to 
day  I  offer  this  poor  memorial  to  her 
name,  because  I  loved  her. 


CHAPTER   VI. 
ALICE   GARY.  —  THE    WRITER. 

As  an  artist  in  literature  Alice  Gary 
suffered,  as  so  many  women  in  this 
generation  do,  for  lack  of  thorough 
mental  discipline  and  those  reserved 
stores  of  knowledge  which  must  be 
gathered  and  garnered  in  youth.  When 
the  burden  and  the  heat  of  the  day 
came,  when  she  needed  them  most, 
she  had  neither  time  nor  strength  to 
acquire  them.  Her  early  youth  was 
spent  chiefly  in  household  drudgery. 
Her  only  chance  for  study  was  in  dear 
snatches  at  books  between  her  tasks, 
and  by  the  kitchen  fire  through  the 
long  winter  evenings.  Referring  to 
this  period  of  her  life,  she  said  :  — 

"In  my  memory  there  are  many 
long,  dark  years  of  labor  at  variance 
with  my  inclinations,  of  bereavement, 
of  constant  struggle,  and  of  hope  de 
ferred." 

Thus,  when  her  life-work  and  work 
for  life  came,  she  did  it  under  the  most 
hampering  disadvantages,  and  often 
amid  bodily  suffering  which  any  ordi 
nary  woman  would  have  made  a  suffi 
cient  excuse  for  absolute  dependence 
upon  others.  Thus  it  was  with  her  as 
with  so  many  of  her  sisters.  So  much 
of  woman's  work  is  artistically  poor, 
not  from  any  poverty  of  gift,  but  for 
lack  of  that  practical  training  of  the 
faculties  which  is  indispensable  to  the 
finest  workmanship.  The  power  is 
there,  but  not  the  perfect  mastery  of 
the  power.  Alice's  natural  endowment 


SPECULA  TIONS. 


39 


of  mind  and  soul  was  of  the  finest  and 
rarest  ;  yet  as  an  artistic  force,  she 
used  it  timidly,  and  at  times  awkwardly. 
She  never,  to  her  dying  hour,  reached 
her  own  standard  ;  never,  in  any  form 
of  art,  satisfied  herself. 

About  ten  years  ago  she  wrote  to  a 
friend  in  the  West :  "  I  am  ashamed 
of  my  work.  The  great  bulk  of  what 
I  have  written  is  poor  stuff.  Some  of 
it,  maybe,  indicates  ability  to  do  better 
—  that  is  about  all.  I  think  I  am  more 
simple  and  direct,  less  diffuse  and 
encumbered  with  ornament  than  in 
former  years,  all,  probably,  because  I 
have  lived  longer  and  thought  more." 

In  dealing  with  two  forces,  hers  was 
the  touch  of  mastery.  As  an  inter 
preter  of  the  natural  world  she  was  un 
surpassed.  And  when  she  spoke  from 
her  own,  never  did  she  fail  to  strike 
the  key-note  to  the  human  heart.  Her 
absorbing  love  for  nature,  inanimate 
and  human,  her  oneness  with  it,  made 
her  what  she  was,  a  poet  of  the  people. 
She  knew  more  of  principles  than  of 
persons,  more  of  nature  than  of  either. 
Her  mind  was  introspective.  Instinct 
ively  she  drew  the  very  life  of  the  uni 
verse  into  her  soul,  and  from  her  soul 
sent  it  forth  into  life  again.  By  her 
nothing  in  nature  is  forgotten  or 
passed  by.  "  The  luminous  creatures 
of  the  air,"  the  cunning  workers  of  the 
ground,  "the  dwarfed  flower,"  and  the 
u  drowning  mote,"  each  shares  some 
thing  of  her  great  human  love,  which, 
brooding  over  the  very  ground,  rises 
and  merges  into  all  things  beautiful. 
One  can  only  wonder  at  the  reverent 
and  observant  faculties,  the  widely  em 
bracing  heart,  which  makes  so  many  of 
God's  loves  its  own.  The  following 
is  a  verse  in  her  truest  vein  :  — 

"  Oh  for  a  single  hour 
To  have  life's   knot  of   evil  and   self- 
blame 

All  straightened,  all  undone  ! 
As  in   the    time    when   fancy  had   the 

power 
The  weariest  and  forlornest  day  to 

bless, 

At  sight  of  any  little  common  flower, 
That  'warmed  her  pallid  fingers  in 

the  sun, 

And  had  no  garment  but  her  loveli 
ness.'1'1 


After  having  lived  in  the  city  for 
twenty  years,  with  not  even  a  grassy 
plat  of  her  own  on  which  to  rest  her 
feet,  the  country  sights  and  sounds, 
which  made  nearly  thirty  years  of  her 
life,  faded  into  pictures  of  the  past. 
In  these  days  "life's  tangled  knot  of 
evil,"  the  phenomena  of  human  exist 
ence,  absorbed  chiefly  her  heart  and 
faculties.  Much  of  the  result  of  her 
questionings  and  replies  we  find  in  her 
"  Thoughts  and  Theories."  Even  these 
are  deeply  veined  with  her  passionate 
love  of  nature,  though  she  speaks  of 
it  as  a  companion  of  the  past.  She 
says  :  — 

"  I   thank    Thee    that   my  childhood's 

vanished  days 
Were  cast  in  rural  ways, 
Where   I  beheld,  with   gladness   ever 

new, 

That  sort  of  vagrant  dew 
Which  lodges  in  the  beggarly  tents  of 

such 
Vile  weeds  as  virtuous  plants  disdain 

to  touch, 
And    with    rough-bearded   burs,   night 

after  night, 
Upgathered    by   the    morning,    tender 

and  true, 
Into  her  clear,  chaste  light. 

"  Such  ways  I  learned  to  know 
That  free  will  cannot  go 
Outside  of  mercy  ;  learned  to  bless 

his  name 

Whose    revelations,    ever    thus    re 
newed 
Along  the  varied  year,  in  field  and 

wood, 
His  loving  care  proclaim. 

"  I  thank  Thee  that  the  grass  and  the 

red  rose 
Do  what  they  can  to  tell 

How  spirit  through  all  forms  of  matter 
flows  ; 

For  every  thistle  by  the  common  way, 

Wearing  its   homely  beauty  ;   for  each 
spring 

That,   sweet    and    homeless,    runneth 

where  it  will  ; 
For  night  and  day  ; 

For   the    alternate    seasons,  —  every 
thing 

Pertaining    to    life's    marvelous   mira 
cle." 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


But  these  later  poems,  with  all  their 
spiritual  thought  and  insight,  with 
all  their  tender  retrospection,  never 
equaled  in  freshness  and  fullness  of 
melody,  in  a  nameless  rush  of  music, 
her  first  lyrics  ;  those  lyrics  written 
when  the  young  soul,  attuned  to  every 
sound  in  nature,  thrilling  with  the  first 
consciousness  of  its  visible  and  invisi 
ble  life,  like  the  reed  of  Pan,  gave  it 
all  forth  in  music  at  the  touch  of  every 
breeze.  No  wonder  that  so  many  pil 
grims  out  in  the  world  turned  and  lis 
tened  to  the  first  notes  of  a  song  so 
natural  and  "  piercing  sweet."  To  the 
dusty  wayfarer  the  freedom  and  fresh 
ness  and  fullness  of  the  winds  and 
waves  swept  through  it.  Listen  :  — 

"  Do  you  hear  the  wild  birds  calling  ? 

Do  you  hear  them.  O  my  heart  ? 
Do  you  see  the  blue  air  falling 

From  their  rushing  wings  apart? 

"With  young  mosses   they  are  flock 
ing* 

For  they  hear  the  laughing  breeze 
With  dewy  fingers  rocking 

Their  light  cradles  in  the  trees  !  " 

And  here  is  one  of  her  early  contri 
butions  to  the  "  National  Era,"  writ 
ten  before  she  was  known  to  fame,  and 
before  she  was  paid  money  for  her 


TO    THE   WINDS. 

Talk  to  my  heart,  O  winds  — 
Talk  to  my  heart  to-night  ; 

My  spirit  always  finds 

With  you  a  new  delight  — 

Finds  always  new  delight, 

In  your  silver  talk  at  night. 

Give  me  your  soft  embrace 
As  you  used  to  long  ago, 

In  your  shadowy  trysting-place, 
When  you  seemed  to  love  me  so 

When  you  sweetly  kissed  me  so, 

On  the  green  hills,  long  ago. 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 
In  the  stilly  twilight  sea, 

For  the  dearest  hope  lies  dead 
That  was  ever  clear  to  me  ; 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 

And  we  '11  talk  about  the  dead. 


Tell  me,  for  oft  you  go, 

Winds  —  lovely  winds  of  night  — 
About  the  chambers  low, 

With  sheets  so  dainty  white, 
If  they  sleep  through  all  the  night 
In  the  beds  so  chill  and  white  ? 

Talk  to  me,  winds,  and  say 

If  in  the  grave  be  rest, 
For,  oh  !  Life's  little  day 

Is  a  weary  one  at  best  ; 
Talk  to  my  heart  and  say 
If  Death  will  give  me  rest. 

In  her  minor  lyrics  of  this  period, 
those  singing  of  some  sad  human  ex 
perience,  we  find  the  same  intimate 
presence  of  natural  objects,  the  same 
simple,  inimitable  pictures  of  country 
life.  I  was  a  young  girl  when  the  fol 
lowing  stanzas  first  met  my  eye.  The 
exquisite  sensation  which  thrilled  me 
when  I  read  them,  was  among  the 
never-to-be-forgotten  experiences  of  a 
life-time.  It  was  as  if  I  had  never 
read  a  poem  before,  and  had  but  just 
received  a  new  revelation  of  song  ; 
though  the  soul  from  whence  it  came 
was  to  me  but  a  name. 

Very  pale  lies  Annie  Clayville, 

Still  her  forehead,  shadow-crowned, 
And  the  watchers  hear  her  saying, 

As  they  softly  tread  around  — 
"  Go  out,  reapers  !  for  the  hill-tops 

Twinkle  with  the  summer's  heat  ; 
Lay  from  out  your  swinging  cradles, 

Golden  furrows  of  ripe  wheat  ! 
While  the  little  laughing  children, 

Lightly  mingling  work  with  play, 
From   between    the    long   green   win- 
rows 

Glean  the  sweetly-scented  hay, 
Let  your  sickles  shine  like  sunbeams 

In  the  silvery  flowing  rye  ; 
Ears  grow  heavy  in  the  corn  fields 

That  will  claim  you  by  and  by. 
Go  out,  reapers,  with  your  sickles, 

Gather  home  the  harvest  store  ! 
Little  gleaners,  laughing  gleaners, 

I  shall  go  with  you  no  more  !  " 

Round  the  red  moon  of  October, 

White  and  cold,  the  eve  stars  climb  ; 

Birds  are  gone,  and  flowers  are  dying  — 
'T  is  a  lonesome,  lonesome  time  ! 

Yellow  leaves  along  the  woodland 
Surge  to  drift  ;  the  elm-bough  sways, 


LAST  POEMS. 


Creaking  at  the  homestead  window, 

All  the  weary  nights  and  days  ; 
Dismally  the  rain  is  falling, 

Very  dismally  and  cold  ! 
Close  within  the  village  grave-yard, 

By  a  heap  of  freshest  ground, 
With  a  simple,  nameless  head-stone, 

Lies  a  low  and  narrow  mound  ; 
And  the  brow  of  Annie  Clayville 

Is  no  longer  shadow-crowned. 
Rest  thee,  lost  one  !   rest  thee  calmly, 

Glad  to  go  where  pain  is  o'er  ; 
Where  they  say  not,  through  the  night 
time, 

"  I  am  weary  !  "  any  more. 

In  her  verses  "To  an  Early  Swal 
low,"  written  within  a  year  or  two  of 
her  death,  we  find  lines  which  revive 
much  of  the  exquisite  imagery  which 
made  her  earlier  lyrics  so  remarkable. 
She  says  :  — 

My  little  bird  of  the  air, 
If  thou  dost  know,  then   tell  me  the 

sweet  reason 
Thou  comest  alway,  duly  in  thy  season, 

To  build  and  pair. 
For  still  we  hear  thee  twittering  round 

the  eaves, 
Ere   yet  the  attentive  cloud  of  April 

lowers, 
Up  from  their  darkened  heath  to  call 

the  flowers, 

Where,  all  the  rough,  hard  weather, 
They  kept  together, 
Under  their  low  brown  roof  of  withered 
leaves. 

And  for  a  moment  still 

Thy  ever-tuneful  bill, 
And  tell  me,  and  I  pray  thee  tell  me 

true, 

If  any  cruel  care  thy  bosom  frets, 
The    while     thou     flittest     ploughlike 
through  the  air  — 

Thy  wings  so  swift  and  slim, 

Turned  downward,  darkly  dim, 
Like  furrows  on  a  ground  of  violets. 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  my  swallow, 

But  have  thy  pretty  way, 

And  prosperously  follow 

The  leading  of  the  sunshine  all  the 

day. 

Thy  virtuous  example 
Maketh  my  foolish    questions    answer 

ample  — 


It  is  thy  large  delights  keeps  open 
wide 

Thy  little  mouth  ;    thou  hast  no  pain 
to  hide  ; 

And  when  thou  leavest  all  the  green- 
topped  woods 

Pining  below,  and  with  melodious  floods 

Flatterest   the    heavy    clouds,   it    is,    I 
know, 

Because,  my  bird,  thou  canst  not  choose 

but  go 

Higher  and  ever  higher 
Into  the  purple  fire 

That  lights  the  morning  meadows  with 
heart's-ease, 

And  sticks  the  hill-sides  full  of  prim 
roses. 

But  tell  me,  my  good  bird, 
If  thou  canst  tune  thy  tongue  to  any 

word, 
Wherewith  to  answer  —  pray  thee  tell 

me  this  : 

Where  gottest  thou  thy  song, 
Still  thrilling  all  day  long, 
Silvered  to  fragments  by  its  very  bliss  ! 
Not,  as  I  guess, 
Of  any  whistling  swain, 
With  cheek  as  richly  russet  as  the  grain 
Sown    in    his  furrows  ;    nor,   I   further 

guess, 

Of  any  shepherdess, 
Whose  tender  heart  did  drag 
Through  the  dim  hollows  of  her  golden 

flag 
After  a  faithless  love  —  while  far 

and  near, 

The  waterfalls,  to  hear, 
Clung  by  their  white  arms  to  the  cold, 

deaf  rocks, 

And  all  the  unkempt  flocks 
Strayed  idly.     Nay,  I  know, 
If  ever  any  love-lorn  maid  did  blow 
Of  such  a  pitiful  pipe,  thou  didst  not  get 
In  such  sad  wise  thy  heart  to  music  set. 

So,  lower  not  down  to  me 
From    its    high    home   thy   ever-busy 

wing; 
I  know  right  well  thy  song  was  shaped 

for  thee 

By  His  unwearying  power 
Who  makes  the  days  about  the  Easter 

flower 
Like  gardens  round  the  chamber  of  a 

king. 

And  whether,  when  the  sobering 
year  hath  run 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


His    brief   course  out,  and  thou  away 

dost  hie 

To  find  thy  pleasant  summer  company  ; 
Or  whether,  my  brown  darling  of  the 

sun, 
When  first  the  South,  to  welcome  up 

the  May, 

Hangs  wide  her  saffron  gate, 
And  thou,  from  the  uprising  of  the  day 
Till    eventide    in   shadow  round   thee 

closes, 
Pourest    thy    joyance   over   field   and 

wood, 

As  if  thy  very  blood 
Were  drawn  from  out  the  young  hearts 

of  the  roses  — 

'T  is  all  to  celebrate, 

And  all  to  praise 
The  careful  kindness  of  His  gracious 

ways 

Who  builds  the  golden  weather 
So     tenderly     about      thy     houseless 

brood  — 

Thy   unfledged,   homeless   brood,  and 
thee  together. 

Ah  !  these  are  the  sweet  reasons, 
My  little  swimmer  of  the  seas  of  air, 
Thou  comest,  goest,  duly  in  thy  sea 
son  ; 

And  furthermore,  that  all  men  every 
where 

May  learn  from  thy  enjoyment 
That  that  which  maketh  life  most  good 

and  fair 
Is  heavenly  employment. 

In  the  very  latest  of  her  suffering 
days,  Alice  Gary  longed  with  longings 
unutterable  to  bring  back  as  a  living 
presence  to  herself  every  scene  which 
inspired  those  early  songs.  In  her 
portfolio  lie  her  last  manuscripts  just 
as  she  left  them,  copied,  each  one,  sev 
eral  times,  with  a  care  and  precision 
which,  in  her  active  and  crowded  days, 
she  never  attempted  ;  copied  in  the 
new  chirography  which  she  compelled 
her  hand  to  acquire,  a  few  months  be 
fore  it  was  laid  upon  her  breast,  idle  at 
last,  in  the  rest  of  death.  These  late 
songs  breathe  none  of  the  faintness  of 
death.  Rather  they  ring  with  the  first 
lyric  fervor  ;  they  cry  out  for,  and  call 
back,  within  the  very  shadow  of  the 
grave,  the  woman's  first  delights.  Wit 
ness  these  in  this  "  Cradle  Song,"  cop 


ied  three  times  by  her  own  hand,  and 
never  before  published. 

CRADLE    SONG. 

All  the  air  is  white  with  snowing, 

Cold  and  white  —  cold  and  white  ; 
Wide  and  wild  the  winds  are  blowing, 
Blowing,  blowing  wide  and  wild. 
Sweet  little  child,  sweet  little  child, 
Sleep,  sleep,  sleep  little  child: 
Earth    is    dark,    but     heaven     is 

bright  — 

Sleep,  sleep  till  the  morning  light : 
Some  must  watch,  and  some  must 

weep, 
And  some,  little  baby,  some  may 

sleep  : 

So,  good-night,  sleep  till  light; 
Lullaby,  lullaby,  and  good-night ! 

Folded  hands  on  the  baby  bosom, 
Cheek    and    mouth    rose-red,    rose- 
sweet  ; 

And  like  a  bee's  wing  in  a  blossom, 
Beat,  beat,  beat  and  beat, 
So  the  heart  keeps  going,  going, 
While  the  winds  in  the  bitter  snow 
ing 

Meet  and  cross  —  cross  and  meet  — 

Heaping  high,  with  many  an  eddy, 

Bars  of  stainless  chalcedony 
All  in  curves  about  the  door, 
Where  shall  fall  no  more,  no  more, 
Longed-for  steps,  so  light,  so  light. 

Little  one,  sleep  till  the  moon  is  low, 
Sleep,  and  rock,  and  take  your  rest ; 

Winter  clouds  will  snow  and  snow, 
And   the  winds   blow  east,  and   the 
winds  blow  west 

Some  must  come,  and  some  must  go, 

And  the  earth  be  dark,  and  the  heavens 

be  bright: 
Never  fear,  baby  dear, 

Wrong  things  lose  themselves  in  right ; 
Never  fear,  mother  is  here, 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  and  good-night. 

O  good  saint,  that  thus  emboldenest 

Eyes  bereaved  to  see,  to-night, 
Cheek  the  rosiest,  hair  the  goldenest, 

Ever  gladdened  the  mother  sight. 
Blessed  art  thou  to  hide  the  willow, 

Waiting  and  weeping  over  the  dead, 
With  the  softest,  silkenest  pillow 

Ever  illumined  hair  o'erspread. 
Never  had  cradle  such  a  cover  ; 

All  my  house  with  light  it  fills  ; 


BALLADS. 


43 


Over  and  under,  under  and  over, 
'Broidered  leaves  of  the  daffodils  ! 

All  away  from  the  winter  weather, 
Baby, wrapt  in  your  'broideries  bright, 

Sleep,  nor  watch  any  more  for  father  — 
Father  will  not  come  home  to-night. 

Angels  now  are  round  about  him, 
In  the  heavenly  home  on  high  ; 

We  must  learn  to  do  without  him  — 
Some  must  live,  and  some  must  die. 
Baby,  sweetest  ever  was  born, 
Shut  little  blue  eyes,  sleep  till  morn  : 
Rock  and    sleep,  and    wait   for   the 

light, 
Father  will  not  come  home  to-night. 

Winter  is  wild,  but  winter  closes  ; 

The  snow  in  the  nest  of  the  bird  will  lie, 

And  the  bird  must  have  its  little  cry  ; 

Yet  the  saddest  day  doth  swiftly  run, 

Up  o'er  the  black  cloud  shines  the  sun, 

And  when  the  reign  of  the  frost  is  done 

The  May  will  come  with  roses,  roses  — 

Green-leaved    grass,    and    red-leaved 
roses  — 

Roses,  roses,  roses,  roses, 

Roses  red,  and  lilies  white. 

Sleep  little  baby,  sleep,  sleep  ; 

Some    must    watch,    and    some    must 
weep  ; 

Sweetly  sleep  till  the  morning  light, 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  and  good-nigh t." 

By  its  side  lies  another  manuscript, 
evidently  written  later.  In  it  the  same 
erect,  clear  writing  is  attempted,  but 
the  hand  wavered  and  would  not  obey 
the  will  ;  the  lines  tremble,  and  at  last 
grow  indistinct.  The  poem  begun  was 
never  finished.  As  the  failing  hand, 
the  yearning  soul  left  it,  word  by  word, 
it  is  here  given  :  — 

Give  me  to  see,  though  only  in  a  dream, 
Though  only  in  an  unsubstantial  dream, 
The  dear  old  cradle  lined  with  leaves  of 

moss, 
And   daily   changed   from  cradle    into 

cross, 
What  time  athwart  its  dull  brown  wood, 

a  beam 
Slid  from  the  gold  deeps  of  the  sunset 

shore, 
Making  the  blur  of  twilight  white  and 

fair, 
Like   lilies    quivering   in    the    summer 

air  ; 

And    my   low    pillow  like  a    rose  full 
blown. 


Oh,  give  mine  eyes  to  see  once  more, 

once  more. 
My  longing  eyes  to  see  this  one  time 

more, 
The    shadows    trembling   with    the 

wings  of  bats, 

And  dandelions  dragging  to  the  door, 
And  speckling  all  the  grass  about  the 

door, 
With    the    thick  spreading   of   their 

starry  mats. 

Give  me  to  see,  I  pray  and   can  but 

pray, 

Oh,  give  me  but  to  see  to-day,  to-day, 
The  little  brown-walled  house  where  I 

was  born  ; 
The   gray   old    barn,    the    cattle-shed 

close  by, 
The  well-sweep,  with  its  angle   sharp 

and  high  ; 

The  flax  field,  like  a  patch  of  fallen  sky  ; 
The    millet   harvest,  colored  like    the 

corn, 
Like  to  the  ripe  ears  of  the  new  husked 

corn. 

And  give  mine  eyes  to  see  among  the 

rest 

This  rustic  picture,  in  among  the  rest, 
For  there  and  only  there  it  cloth  belong, 
I,  at  fourteen,  and  in  my  Sunday  best, 
Reading  with  voice  unsteady  my  first 

song, 
The   rugged   verses   of  my  first   rude 

song. 

As  a  ballad  writer  she  was  never 
equaled  by  any  American  man  or  wom 
an.  She  loved  the  ballad,  and  there 
is  ever  in  hers  a  naive,  arch  grace  of 
utterance,  inimitable.  In  the  ballad, 
hers  was  the  very  luxury  of  song.  She 
never  waited  for  a  rhyme.  Her  rhythm 
rippled  and  ran  with  the  fervor  and 
fullness  of  a  mountain  brook  after  the 
springtime  rains.  Never  quite  over 
taking  it,  she  yet  leaped  and  ran  and 
sang  with  it  in  ever  new  delight. 
What  a  wild  thrilling  rush  is  there  in 
such  lines  as  these  :  — 

"  Haste,  good  boatman  !  haste  !  "  she 

cried, 

"  And  row  me  over  the  other  side  !  " 
And    she    stript   from   her   finger   the 

shining  ring, 
And  gave  it  me  for  the  ferrying. 


A4 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PIKE  BE   GARY. 


"  Woe  's  me  !  my  Lady,  I  may  not  go, 
For  the  wind  is  high  and  th'  tide  is 

low, 
And    rocks    like    dragons    lie    in    the 

wave,  — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  you 

gave  !  " 

"  Nay,    nay  !    for    the    rocks    will    be 

melted  down, 
And  the  waters,  they  never  will  let  me 

drown, 
And    the    wind   a   pilot  will    prove    to 

thee, 
For  my  dying  lover,  he  waits  for  me  !  " 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  spur 
She    put  in  my  hand,  but  I  answered 

her : 
"  The    wind    is  high    and    the    tide    is 

low,  — 
I    must    not,    dare    not,    and    will    not 

go!" 

Her  face  grew  deadly  white  with  pain, 
And  she  took  her  champing  steed  by 

th'  mane, 
And  bent  his   neck   to  th'  ribbon  and 

spur 
That  lay  in  my  hand,  —  but  I  answered 

her: 

"  Though  you  should  proffer  me  twice 

and  thrice 
Of    ring   and    ribbon    and   steed    the 

price,  — 
The    leave    of    kissing    your    lilv-like 

hand  ! 
I    never   could    row    you    safe    to    th' 

land." 

"  Then  God  have  mercy  !  "  she  faintly 

cried, 

"  For  my  lover  is  dying  the  other  side  ! 
O  cruel,  O  cruellest  Gallaway, 
Be  parted,  and  make  me  a  path,  I  pray  !  " 

Of  a  sudden,  the  sun  shone  large  and 

bright 

As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night, 
And  the  rain  on  the  river  fell  as  sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's 

feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge  to 

edge 
A    rainbow    stretched    like    a    golden 

bridge, 


And  I  put  the  rein  in  her  hand  so  fair, 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle  th'  queen  o' 
th'  air. 

And  over  the  river,  from  edge  to  edge, 
She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shimmer 
ing  bridge, 

And  landing  safe  on  the  farther  side,  — 
"  Love  is  thy  conqueror,  Death  !  "  she 
cried. 

The  following  is,  perhaps,  a  more 
characteristic  illustration  of  the  pen 
sive  naturalness  of  her  usual  manner. 
Amid  scores,  it  simply  represents  her 
utter  ease  of  rhythm  ;  the  blended  real 
ism  and  idealism  of  her  thoughts  and 
feelings  :  —  ' 

And  Margaret  set  her  wheel  aside, 
And  breaking  off  her  thread, 

Went  forth  into  the  harvest-field 
With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 
With  shining  yellow  bands, 

Through  clover,  lifting  its  red  tops 
Almost  unto  her  hands. 

Her  ditty  flowing  on  the  air, 
For  she  did  not  break  her  song, 

And  the  water  dripping  o'er  th'  grass, 
From  her  pail  as  she  went  along,  — 

Over  the  grass  that  said  to  her, 
Trembling  through  all  its  leaves, 

"  A  bright  rose  for  some  harvester 
To  bind  among  his  sheaves  !  " 

And  clouds  of  gay  green  grasshoppers 

Flew  up  the  way  she  went, 
And    beat   their    wings    against    their 
sides, 

And  chirped  their  discontent. 

And  the  blackbird  left  the  piping  of 

His  amorous,  airy  glee, 
And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing,  — 

An  evil  sign  to  see. 

The  meadow-herbs,  as  if  they  felt 
Some  secret  wound,  in  showers 

Shook  down  their  bright  buds  till  her 

way 
Was  ankle-deep  with  flowers. 

Her  personal  acquaintance  with  all 
the  flowers  and  herbs  of  wood  and 


SCRAP-BOOKS. 


45 


field  was  as  intimate  as  that  she  had 
with  people.  She  never  generalizes  in 
writing  of  them,  but  sets  each  one  in 
her  verse  as  she  would  in  a  vase,  with 
the  most  delicate  consciousness  of  its 
blending  lights  and  shades.  A  young 
Southern  lady,  who  from  childhood  has 
been  a  loving  student  of  Alice  Gary's 
poetry,  remarked  at  her  funeral,  that 
she  believed  she  could  find  each  flower 
of  our  Middle  States,  and  many  of 
those  of  the  South,  mentioned  with  ap 
preciation  in  some  part  of  Alice  Gary's 
poems. 

Yet  nothing  in  her  music  touches  one 
so  nearly  as  its  manifold  variations  of 
the  hymn  of  hwman  life  —  now  tender, 
pathetic,  and  patient  ;  now  grand  with 
resignation  and  faith,  uttered  always 
with  a  child-like  simplicity  ;  telling, 
most  of  all,  how  the  human  heart  can 
love  and  suffer,  how  it  can  believe  and 
find  rest.  It  was  her  all-embracing 
pity,  her  yearning  love  for  the  entire 
race  of  Adam,  which  made  her  song  a 
personal  power,  an  ever  present  con 
solation  to  thousands  of  human  souls 
who  never  measured  her  by  any  rule 
of  poetic  art.  A  friend  who  had  loved 
her  long,  writing  of  her  after  death, 
said  :  — 

"  Having  passed  one  day  from  her 
chamber  of  anguish,  musing  upon  her 
despondency  at  being  thus  laid  aside 
from  active  employment,  we  recount 
ed  her  words  at  the  bedside  of  an 
other  sufferer,  who  had  never  seen 
the  afflicted  poet.  The  latter,  in  re 
ply,  drew  her  common-place  book  from 
beneath  her  pillow,  and  pointed  to 
poem  after  poem  by  Alice  Gary,  which 
had  been  her  solace  during  weary 
months  and  years  of  sickness  and 
pain,  and  bade  us  give  her  greeting  of 
gratitude  to  that  unknown  but  beloved 
benefactor.  Thus  does  the  All-see 
ing  Father  bless  our  unconscious  in 
fluence,  and  often  make  our  seeming 
helplessness  more  potent  for  good 
than  our  best  hours  of  purposed  ef 
fort." 

If  the  scrap-books  of  the  land  could 
to-day  be  drawn  forth  from  their  re 
ceptacles,  we  should  find  that  Alice 
Gary  has  a  place  as  a  poet  in  the 
hearts  of  the  people,  which  no  mere 
critic  in  his  grandeur  has  ever  allowed. 
Nor  would  these  scrap-books  be  solely 


the  property  of  "  gushing "  girls,  and 
tearful  women.  The  heart  of  man  re 
sponds  scarcely  less  to  her  music.  One 
of  the  most  eminent  and  learned  of 
living  statesmen  remarked,  since  her 
death,  "  It  seems  as  if  I  had  read  al 
most  every  poem  that  Alice  Gary  has 
ever  written  :  at  least  my  scrap-book 
is  full  of  them." 

There  is  no  sadder  inequality  than 
that  which  exists  often  between  the 
estimate  an  author  places  upon  some 
work  that  has  been  wrought  from  his 
soul  and  brain,  and  the  one  placed  on 
it  by  a  careless  reader,  or  the  average 
public.  It  is  the  very  tissue  of  being, 
the  life-blood  of  one.  To  the  other, 
often,  it  is  but  mere  words  ;  or,  at  most, 
an  inartistic  performance,  whose  best 
fate  is  to  be  superficially  read  and 
quickly  forgotten.  Nor  is  it  the  fault 
of  this  public  that  it  is  all  unknowing 
of  the  time  and  tears,  the  patience  and 
sorrow  and  love  often  inwrought  in  the 
book  which  it  so  lightly  passes  over. 
It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  individual 
life  of  the  author ;  yet  no  less  its 
thoughtless  and  sometimes  unjust 
judgment  makes  one  of  the  hard  facts 
of  human  life.  There  never  was  a 
more  touching  illustration  of  this  than 
in  Alice  Gary's  feeling  toward  her  little 
book  of  poems  called  "  A  Lover's 
Diary,"  published  by  Ticknor  and 
Fields,  in  1868,  and  the  average  recep 
tion  of  it.  To  the  newspaper  notices 
it  seemed  but  a  tame  collection  of  love- 
songs,  never  thrilling  and  often  weari 
some.  This  was  the  most  that  it  was 
to  many.  To  her  it  was  her  soul's 
flower  laid  upon  the  grave  of  her  dar 
ling —  the  young  sister  who  for  so  many 
years  was  the  soul  of  her  soul  and  the 
life  of  her  life.  It  is  the  portrait  of 
this  sister  (though  casting  but  a  dim 
shadow  of  her  living  loveliness)  which 
graces  the  front  of  the  book  ;  and  the 
dedication  below  it,  so  simple,  un 
feigned,  sorrowful,  and  loving,  is  one  of 
the  most  touching  utterances  in  litera 
ture. 

Here,  and  not  here  ! 
When  following  care  about  my  house  I 

tread 

Sadly,  and  all  so  slowly, 
There  often  seemeth  to  be  round  me 
spread 


46 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


A  blessed  light,  as  if  the  place  were 

holy  ; 
And  then  thou  art  near. 

Lost,  and  not  lost  ! 
When  silence  taketh  in  the  night  her 

place, 

And  I  my  soul  deliver 
All  to  sweet  dreaming  of  thy  sovereign 

grace, 
I  see  the   green  hills   on  beyond  the 

river 
Thy  feet  have  crossed. 

And  so,  my  friend, 
I  have  and  hold  thee   all  the  while  I 

wait, 

Musing  and  melancholy  ; 
And  so  these  songs  to  thee   I  dedicate, 
Whose  song  shall  flow  henceforth  se 
rene  and  holy, 
Life  without  end. 

For  dear,  dear  one, 
Even  as  a  traveler,  doomed  alone  to 

go 

Through  some  wild  wintry  valley, 
Takes  in  his  poor,  rude  hand  the  way 
side  snow 
And   shapes   it   to   the   likeness   of  a 

lily, 
So  have  I  done  ; 

That  while  I  wove 
Lays  that  to  men's  minds  haply  might 

recall 

Some  bower  of  bliss  unsaddened, 
•Moulding  and  modulating  one  and  all 
Upon  thy  life,  so  many  lives  that  glad 
dened 
With  light  and  love. 

Elmina  Gary,  the  youngest  child  of 
Robert  and  Elizabeth  Gary,  seemed  to 
take  the  place  in  Alice's  heart  and 
care,  filled  by  the  little  sister  Lucy  in 
her  youth.  Elmina,  who  was  married 
in  early  girlhood  to  Mr.  Alexander 
Swift  of  Cincinnati,  in  her  health  very 
soon  showed  symptoms  of  the  family 
fate.  Marked  by  death  at  twenty,  she 
lingered  eleven  years.  A  portion  of  this 
time  her  home  was  in  New  York.  The 
air  of  Cincinnati  was  harsh  for  her,  and 
needing  always  in  her  decline  the  min 
istry  of  her  sisters,  she  spent  much 
time  with  them,  and  died  in  their  home. 
She  was  especially  dependent  upon 


Alice,  as  Phoebe  says  :  "  Greatly  her 
junior,  and  of  feeble  frame,  she  was 
her  peculiar  care,  a  sister,  child,  and 
darling."  She  slowly  faded  from  the 
earth,  day  by  day  growing  lovelier  to 
the  last.  She  had  the  face  and  nature 
of  Alice,  touched  with  the  softness  of 
dependence,  and  the  delicate  contour 
of  youth.  She  was  of  especial  loveli 
ness,  with  a  face  to  inspire  a  painter  : 
oval,  olive-tinted,  crowned  with  masses 
of  dark  hair,  lit  with  a  pair  of  dark  eyes 
as  steadfast  as  planets  and  as  shining 
as  stars.  All  innocence  and  tender 
ness,  many  friends  of  Alice  and  Phoebe 
remember  this  younger  sister  as  the 
gentlest  genius  of  their  household. 
She  possessed  the  gift  divine  of  her 
family  —  was  a  poet  in  temperament 
and  heart,  as  she  must  have  been  in 
utterance,  had  she  lived.  As  it  was, 
she  wiled  away  many  hours  and  years 
of  pain  in  weaving  together  the  bal 
lads  and  hymns  and  artless  stories  of 
life,  which  thronged  her  heart  and 
brain. 

Wearing  "  the  rose  of  womanhood  " 
in  perfect  loveliness,  she  faded  away 
from  the  world,  leaving  no  sign  save  in 
the  hearts  that  loved  her.  There  are 
women  striving  now  to  gather  into  their 
ripening  souls  the  grace  of  patience, 
and  that  bright  serenity  which  is  its 
finest  charm,  who  feel  that  it  is  easier 
to  reach  because  she  lived  and  because 
they  loved  her.  And  there  are  men 
wrestling  in  the  world,  their  days 
crowded  with  its  weary  affairs,  who 
nevertheless  carry  this  woman's  mem 
ory  like  a  flower  in  their  hearts,  thank 
ing  God  for  it.  For  no  man  finds  in  a 
woman's  soul  the  revelation  of  a  rarer 
self,  receiving  it  into  his  heart  as  the 
incentive  toward  a  better  life  who  ever 
loses  it  wholly,  or  who  ever  forgets  the 
gentle  face  that  was  its  visible  type. 

When,  in  1862,  she  died.  Alice  wrote  : 
"  My  darling  is  dead.  My  hands  are 
empty  ;  my  work  seems  clone."  From 
that  hour,  till  the  "  Lover's  Diary  " 
was  published  in  1868,  Alice,  amid  her 
arduous  toils,  was  writing  these  songs 
in  her  praise,  and  for  her  sake. 

When  the  book  was  done,  she  laid  it 
in  the  hand  of  a  friend,  saying,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "  It  will  be  something 
to  you,  for  you  knew  her.'"  Its  pre 
vailing  fault  is  its  monotony.  The 


AIONA   SIC  A'.' 


47 


sameness  of  its  rhythm,  and  the  con 
stant  repetition  of  one  name,  is  sure  to 
tire  a  reader  after  a  few  consecutive 
pages,  if  he  knows  nothing  of  its  his 
tory,  and  never  knew  or  loved  person 
ally  its  subject.  And  yet  no  apprecia- 
tor  of  true  poetry  can  turn  over  its 
leaves  without  a  constantly  recurring 
sense  of  surprise  at  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  phrase,  and  tenderness  of 
rhythm  running  through  the  minor 
lyrics.  Phoebe  says  of  them  :  "  I  do 
not  know  how  this  book  may  affect 
others  ;  but  to  me  some  of  the  poems 
have  a  most  tearful  and  touching  pa 
thos.  '  Mona  Sick  '  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  saddest  and  sweetest."  Read  as 
the  rhythmic  utterance  of  absolute 
truth --the  heart's  real  cry  over  a 
loved  one  dying,  and  that  loved  one  a 
sister  —  what  a  sacred  sound  these 
lines  take  on  ! 

"  Low  lying  in  her  pallid  pain, 

A  flower  that  thirsts  and  dies  for  rain, 

I  see  her  night  and  day  : 
And  every  heart-beat  is  a  cry, 
And  every  breath  I  breathe  a  sigh  — 

Oh,  for  the  May,  the  May  ! 


"  All  the  dreaming  is  broken  through  ; 
Both  what  is  done  and  undone  I  rue. 
Nothing    is     steadfast     and     nothing 

true, 
But  your  love  for  me  and  my  love  for 

'  you, 

My  dearest,  dear  little  heart. 

"  The  time  is  weary,  the  year  is  old, 
The    light   o'  the  lily   burns    close    to 

the  mould  ; 

The  grave  is  cruel,  the  grave  is  cold, 

But  the  other  side  is  the  city  of  gold, 

My  clearest,  dear  little  heart." 

Coldly  as  this  little  book  was  re 
ceived  at  its  publication,  more  of  its 
lyrics  are  afloat  on  the  great  news 
paper  sea  to-day  than  ever  before  ; 
while  several  of  them  have  been  in 
corporated  in  standard  books  of  poet 
ry.  There  is  one,  than  which  Charles 
Kingsley  or  Alfred  Tennyson  never 
sang  a  sweeter,  which  has  drifted  to 
Europe  and  back,  and  been  appropri 
ated  in  a  hundred  ways,  whose  last 
stanza  runs  :  — 


"  The   fisher   droppeth  his  net  in  the 

stream, 
And    a    hundred    streams    are    the 

same  as  one  ; 
And  the  maiden  dreameth  her  love-lit 

dream  ; 
And    what    is    it    all,    when    all    is 

done  ? 
The    net    of    the    fisher    the    burden 

breaks, 
And  always  the  dreaming  the  dreamer 

wakes." 

It  was  in  attempting  to  deal  with 
more  material  and  cruder  forces  that 
Alice  Cary  failed.  In  the  more  com 
prehensive  sense,  she  never  learned 
the  world.  In  her  novels,  attempting 
to  portray  the  faults  and  passions  of 
men  and  women,  we  find  her  rudest 
work.  Her  mastery  of  quaintness,  of 
fancy,  of  naturalistic  beauty  penetrated 
with  pathetic  longing,  tinged  with  a 
clear  psychological  light,  revealing  the 
soul  of  nature  and  of  human  life  from 
within,  all  give  to  her  unaffected  utter 
ances  an  inexpressible  charm.  But  the 
airy  touch,  the  subtle  insight,  which 
translated  into  music  the  nature  which 
she  knew,  stumbled  and  fell  before  the 
conflicting  deformity  of  depraved  hu 
manity.  The  dainty  imagination  which 
decked  her  poetic  forms  with  such  ex 
quisite  grace  could  not  stand  in  the 
stead  of  actual  knowledge  ;  usurping 
its  prerogative,  it  degenerated  into 
caricature.  She  held  in  herself  the 
primal  power  to  portray  human  life  in 
its  most  complex  relations,  and  most 
profound  significance.  She  missed  the 
leisure  and  the  experience  which  to 
gether  would  have  given  her  the  mas 
tery  of  that  power.  It  wrestled  with 
false,  and  sometimes  unworthy  mate 
rial.  The  sorrows  and  wrongs  of 
woman,  the  injustice  of  man,  the  high 
est  possibilities  of  human  nature,  she 
longed  to  embody  them  all  in  the  forms 
of  enduring  art.  A  life  already  near 
ly  consumed,  sickness,  weariness,  and 
death,  said  No.  Her  novels  are 
strong  with  passages  of  intense  feel 
ing  ;  we  feel  through  them  the  surges 
of  a  wild,  unchained  power  ;  but  as 
broad,  comprehensive  portraitures  of 
human  life,  as  the  finest  exponents  of 
the  noble  nature  from  which  they 
emanated,  they  are  often  unworthy  of 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  GARY. 


her.  In  interpreting  nature,  she  never 
failed.  Her  "  Clovernook  Stories," 
her  first  in  prose  which  reproduced 
perfectly  the  life  that  she  knew,  are 
pure  idyls  of  country  life  and  charac 
ter,  and  in  their  fresh,  original  charm 
deserve  their  place  amid  the  classics 
of  English  speech.  In  the  utterance 
of  natural  emotion,  crossed  in  its  very 
pathos  with  psychical  thought,  surely 
she  was  never  surpassed.  I  give  an 
illustration  from  "An  Old  Maid's 
Story,"  in  her  "Pictures  of  Country 
Life." 

"  When  he  spoke  of  the  great  here 
after,  when  our  souls  that  had  crossed 
their  mates,  perhaps,  and  perhaps  left 
them  behind,  or  gone  unconsciously 
before  them,  dissatisfied  and  longing 
and  faltering  all  the  time  ;  and  of  the 
deep  of  joy  they  would  enter  into  on 
recognizing  fully  and  freely  the  other 
self,  which,  in  this  world,  had  been  so 
poorly  and  vaguely  comprehended,  if 
at  all  ;  what  delicious  tremor,  half  fear 
and  half  fervor,  thrilled  all  my  being, 
and  made  me  feel  that  the  dust  of  time 
and  the  barriers  of  circumstance,  the 
dreary  pain  of  a  life  separated  from  all 
others,  death  itself,  all  were  nothing 
but  shadows  passing  between  me  and 
the  eternal  sunshine  of  love.  I  could 
afford  to  wait,  I  could  afford  to  be  pa 
tient  under  my  burdens,  and  to  go 
straight  forward  through  all  hard  fates 
and  fortunes,  assured  that  I  should 
know  and  be  known  at  last,  love  and 
be  loved  in  the  fullness  of  a  blessed 
ness,  which,  even  here,  mixed  with  bit 
terness  as  it  is,  is  the  sweetest  of  all. 
What  was  it  to  me  that  my  hair  was 
black,  and  my  step  firm,  while  his  hair 
to  whom  I  listened  so  reverentially  was 
white,  and  his  step  slow,  if  not  feeble. 
What  was  it  that  he  had  more  wisdom, 
and  more  experience  than  I,  and  what 
was  it  that  he  never  said,  '  You  are 
faintly  recognized,  and  I  see  a  germ 
close-folded,  which  in  the  mysterious 
processes  of  God's  Providence  may 
unfold  a  great  white  flower.'  We  had 
but  crossed  each  other  in  the  long 
journey,  and  I  was  satisfied,  for  I  felt 
that  in  our  traversing  up  the  ages,  we 
should  meet  again." 

Another  strong  quality  in  much  of 
her  prose  is  its  sturdy  common  sense. 
In  her  the  poetical  temperament  never 


impinged  on  a  keen,  unclouded  judg 
ment.  In  dealing  with  all  practical 
matters  she  was  one  of  the  most  prac 
tical  of  women.  She  betrays  this 
quality  in  the  utter  directness  with 
which  she  meets  and  answers  many 
questions  concerning  every-day  life  and 
character.  The  last  article  in  prose 
which  she  ever  wrote,  printed  in  the 
"  New  York  Independent,"  was  thus 
referred  to  by  its  editor  :  — 

"  Lying  upon  her  sick-bed,  she  who 
had  never  eaten  the  bread  of  idleness 
wrote  for  us  the  pungent  denunciation 
of  '  Shirks,'  that  appeared  in  the  paper 
of  February  2d.  It  was  probably  her 
very  last  article,  and  after  that  the 
weary  hand  that  knew  no  shirking  was 
still.  She  intended  it  to  be  the  first  of 
a  series  of  '  semi-didactic  articles  '  —  so 
she  wrote  us." 

It  contained  these  words  :  — 

"  Blessed,  indeed,  is  that  roof-tree 
which  has  no  fungus  attachment,  and 
blessed  the  house  that  has  no  dilapi 
dated  chair  and  third-rate  bed  reserved 
in  some  obscure  corner  for  poor  Uncle 
John,  or  Aunt  Nancy  !  To  be  sure, 
there  are  Uncle  Johns  and  Aunt  Nancys 
who  are  honestly  poor,  and  legitimately 
dependent  —  not  guilty,  but  simply 
unfortunate.  It  is  not  of  such,  how 
ever,  that  I  am  discoursing  ;  they  will 
come  under  another  head.  It  is  of 
that  sort  that  go  not  out,  even  through 
fasting  and  prayer  — your  '  truly-begot 
ten  sliirks? 

"  Talk  of  divine  rights  !  They  are 
quite  beyond  that ;  they  do  not  seek 
to  justify  themselves.  '  Dick,  the  ras 
cal,  has  more  than  he  knows  how  to 
spend  !  '  says  John.  '  He  will  never 
miss  the  little  I  shall  eat  and  drink.' 
And  so  it  happens  that  a  lank,  dirty, 
coarse-shirted  man,  with  an  ill-flavored 
budget  under  his  arm,  and  poverty  of 
blood  —  for  he  is  poor  all  through  — 
skulks  into  John's  house  some  morn 
ing  ;  and  woe  the  day,  for  he  never 
goes  out.  And  after  that,  '  eternal 
vigilance  is  the  price '  at  which  his 
snuffy  handkerchief,  clay  pipe,  and 
queer  old  hat  are  kept  out  of  the  draw 
ing-room. 

"And  after  the  same  fashion  Aunt 
Nancy  quarters  herself  upon  Susan ; 
bringing  with  her,  perhaps,  a  broken- 
boned  and  flyaway  cotton  umbrella,  a 


ALICE   GARY'S  RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 


49 


bandbox,  and  some  old-fashioned  duds 
that  were  the  finery  of  her  girlhood. 
There  is  some  feeling  of  rebellion, 
some  feeble  effort  toward  riddance,  on 
the  part  of  the  householders  ;  but  they 
are  rich,  and  their  doom  is  on  them. 
And  by  and  by  things  settle  into  un 
quiet  quiet  ;  and  John  and  Nancy 
are  tolerated,  if  not  accepted  —  being, 
whenever  their  habitual  aggressiveness 
is  inordinately  aggravated,  gotten  back 
with  gentle  force  into  their  accustomed 
dens.  Thus,  facing  no  responsibility, 
assuming  no  position  in  society,  nor 
even  in  the  household,  recognizing  no 
duty,  they  are  dragged  along.  And 
when  that  call  comes  to  which  they 
perforce  must  answer,  Here  am  I  — 
that  event  that  happeneth  unto  all,  for 
which  there  is  no  evasion  and  no  sub 
stitute —  they  simply  disappear.  The 
world  was  no  richer  while  they  stayed, 
and  it  is  no  poorer  now  that  they  are 
gone.  No  single  heart  is  bereft,  even. 
The  worm  has  eaten  all  the  meat  out  of 
the  shell,  and  has  perished  of  the  sur 
feit  and  of  indolence  ;  and  why  should 
mourners  go  about  the  streets  ?  " 

Alice  Gary  was  emphatically  a  work 
er,  yet  she  never  for  a  moment  be 
lieved  that  mere  industry  could  supply 
the  lack  of  a  mental  gift.  In  an  article 
of  great  power  written  for  "  Packard's 
Monthly,"  she  replied  to  Mr.  Greeley 
on  this  subject,  taking  issue  against 
him.  It  contained  the  following  para 
graph  :  — 

"•  I  do  not  believe  that  a  man  always 
passes,  in  the  long  rim,  for  what  he  is 
worth.  It  seems  to  me  a  hard  saying. 
The  vision  that  the  poet  or  the  painter 
transcribes  and  leaves  a  joy  and  a  won 
der  to  all  time,  may,  I  believe,  have 
come  all  the  same  to  some  poor,  un 
lettered  man,  who,  lacking  the  exter 
nal  faculty,  so  to  speak,  could  not  lay 
it  in  all  its  glorious  shape  and  color 
on  the  canvas,  or  catch  and  hold  it  in 
the  fastness  of  immortal  verse.  No,  I 
cannot  give  up  my  comfortable  faith, 
that  in  other  worlds  and  far-off  ages 
there  will  appear  a  shining  multitude 
who  shall,  through  death,  have  come 
to  themselves,  and  have  found  expres 
sion  denied  them  on  earth  :  beautiful 
souls,  whose  bodies  were  their  prisons 
—  who  stammered  or  stood  dumb 
among  their  kind,  bearing  alone  the  . 
4 


slights  and  disgraces  of  fortune,  and 
all  the  while  conscious,  in  their  dread 
isolation,  of  being  peers  of  the  poets 
and  the  kings,  and  of  all  the  royal  men 
and  women  of  the  world." 

Alice  Gary  lived  to  pass  into  that 
serene  spiritual  atmosphere  which  out- 
lies  the  emotions  and  passions  of 
youth  ;  where,  in  having  outlived  its 
love  and  sorrow,  its  loss  and  longing, 
no  shadow  fell  between  her  soul  and 
the  Illimitable  Love.  Her  "Thoughts 
and  Theories "  and  "  Hymns,"  con 
tained  in  the  volume  of  her  poems 
published  by  Hurd  and  Houghton, 
1866,  were  chiefly  the  utterances  of 
this  period  of  her  life.  They  called 
forth  thousands  of  expressions  of  per 
sonal  thanks  and  regard  from  all  over 
the  land,  and  yet  they  failed  of  univer 
sal  recognition  in  the  mere  world  of 
literature.  They  won  little  or  no  praise 
in  places  from  whence  she  had  a  right 
to  expect  it.  She  considered  them  the 
best  expressions  of  her  mature  power  ; 
and  the  comparatively  cold  reception 
which  she  thought  they  received,  es 
pecially  from,  some  of  her  personal 
friends,  was  a  cause  of  grief.  Aside 
from  all  sympathy  of  friendship,  my 
opinion  is  that  these  poems  never 
received  justice.  Yet  the  cause  was 
scarcely  with  friends  or  in  the  public  ; 
but  was  a  part  of  the  untoward  condi 
tions  of  her  life.  She  was  forced  to 
write  too  much.  Her  name  was  seen 
in  print  too  often.  This  is  one  of  the 
heaviest  penalties  which  genius  incurs 
in  earning  its  living  by  a  pen.  Its 
name  comes  to  have  a  market  value, 
and  is  sold  and  used  for  that.  Mere 
newspaper  work,  if  tolerably  well  done, 
can  bear  this  test  for  a  long  time.  But 
it  is  death  to  poetry  to  write  it  "on 
time,"  or  to  sell  it  in  advance  for  a 
name.  Necessity  forced  Alice  to  do 
this  so  often  that,  while  her  name 
never  lost  its  hold  upon  the  masses,  it 
came  to  be  rated  lower  in  the  estima 
tion  of  critics,  and  in  some  sense  her 
sweetest  lyrics  sink  to  the  value  of 
rhymes  in  the  minds  of  her  friends. 
Many  loved  Alice  as  a  friend,  who 
ranked  her  low  as  a  poet ;  and  she 
knew  it.  But,  heavy  as  the  outer  tax 
upon  it  was,  the  deep  inner  spring  of 
her  inspiration  never  failed  ;  from  it 
chiefly  flowed  the  poems  in  this  book. 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Yet  the  excess  of  her  daily  labor  was 
so  much  taken  from  its  chances  of  suc 
cess.  Some  of  her  warmest  personal 
friends  scarcely  took  the  trouble  to 
look  within  its  covers,  to  see  whether 
it  contained  rhymes  or  poems.  They 
drank  tea  at  her  table,  they  waxed 
eloquent  in  her  parlor,  they  knew 
Alice  that  she  was  one  of  the  noblest 
and  sweetest  of  women  ;  after  that, 
what  did  it  matter  what  she  thought, 
or  felt,  or  did  ! 

They  never  dreamed  that,  when  the 
lights  were  out,  and  the  bright  parlor 
closed,  the  woman  sometimes  sat  down 
and  wept  for  the  word  of  encourage 
ment  that  was  not  spoken,  for  the 
little  meed  of  appreciation  that  was 
not  proffered,  which,  could  it  have 
come  from  those  whose  judgment  she 
valued,  would  have  been  new  life  and 
inspiration  to  her  amid  her  ceaseless 
toil. 

No  less  this  book  of  poems  holds  in 
thought  and  utterance  many  of  the  ele 
ments  of  enduring  existence.  It  must 
live,  because  it  is  poetry,  embodying  in 
exquisite  rhythm  and  phrase  the  soul 
of  nature  and  of  human  life  ;  live  in 
the  heart  of  the  future  when  we  who 
criticised  it,  or  passed  it  by,  are  dead 
and  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
ALICE'S   LAST   SUMMER. 

WE  have  many  proofs  that  a  life  de 
voted  to  letters  is  favorable  to  longev 
ity  in  women.  With  all  the  anxiety 
and  care  of  following  literature  as  a 
profession,  with  all  the  toil  of  obtaining 
a  livelihood  by  it,  they  have  as  a  rule 
lived  to  venerable  years.  A  passionate 
yearning  for  continued  human  existence 
was  a  ruling  characteristic  of  Alice 
Gary  to  her  last  conscious  hour.  She 
had  inherited  a  constitutional  tendency 
from  her  mother,  which  was  unfavor 
able  to  robust  health  or  to  long  life. 
Yet  with  different  habits  of  work  and 
•of  life,  established  early  and  persist 
ently  pursued,  even  she  might  have 
won  the  longed  for  lease  of  life,  and 
have  added  another  to  the  list  of  ven 
erable  names,  whom  we  delight  to  ven 


erate  among  women  of  letters.  Truly, 
some  proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  th'e 
fact  that  her  brothers,  sons  of  the  same 
mother,  who  have  spent  their  lives  on 
and  near  the  old  homestead  farm  in 
active,  out-door,  farmer  life,  are  to-day 
strong,  healthy,  and  robust  men. 

Alice  and  Phoebe  could  not. have 
been  farmers,  but  in  their  twenty  years 
of  life  in  the  city  they  could  have  fol 
lowed,  nearer  than  they  did,  the  out- 
of-doors  habits  of  their  old  country 
home.  These  barefooted  rovers  in 
country  Lines,  who  grow  up  fostered 
by  sunshine,  air,  and  sky,  the  intimate 
friends  of  bees  and  birds,  of  horses  and 
cows,  of  the  cunning  workers  of  the 
ground  and  the  murmuring  nations  of 
the  summer  air  ;  these  lovers  of  com 
mon  flowers  with  common  names ; 
these  rural  queens  who  reigned  supreme 
in  their  own  kingdom,  whose  richest 
revenue  to  the  day  of  their  death  was 
drawn  from  the  wealth  of  nature  left 
so  far  behind,  in  the  full  flower  of  their 
womanhood  came  to  the  great  city,  and 
began  a  new  life,  which  the  vitality  of 
the  old  enabled  them  to  endure  for 
twenty  years,  but  which  drew  con 
stantly  on  their  vital  springs,  without 
adding  one  drop  to  the  sources  of  phys 
ical  health.  To  attain  the  highest  suc 
cess  which  they  sought,  they  needed 
both  the  attrition  and  opportunities  of 
the  city.  Had  they  added  to  this  new 
life,  for  a  third  of  every  year,  their  old 
pastimes  and  old  pursuits,  they  might 
have  added  years  to  their  existence. 
But  no  human  being,  city  bred,  much 
less  one  country  born,  could  have  main 
tained  the  highest  health  or  have  pro 
longed  existence  in  the  hot  air,  with 
the  sedentary  habits,  which  made  the 
daily  life  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary  for 
many  years.  The  new  life  encroached 
upon  the  old  vitality  imperceptibly,  and 
not  until  the  very  last  year  of  their  lives 
was  either  of  them  conscious  of  the 
fatal  harm  it  had  wrought.  They  ex 
changed  the  country  habits  and  the 
familiar  out-of-door  haunts  of  the  old 
farm  for  the  roar  of  streets  and  the 
confining  air  of  a  city  house.  More 
over,  modest  as  this  house  was,  it  took 
much  money  to  support  it  in  such  a 
place.  This  was  all  to  be  earned  by 
the  pen,  and  for  many  years  it  was 
earned  almost  exclusively  by  Alice. 


SEDENTARY  HABITS. 


With  her  natural  independence,  her 
fear  of  financial  obligation,  her  hatred 
of  debt,  her  desire  for  a  competency, 
her  generous  hospitality,  it  is  easy  to 
see  how  heavy  was  the  yoke  of  work 
which  she  wore.  Dear  soul !  she  might 
have  made  it  lighter,  could  she  have 
believed  it.  As  it  was,  even  to  the  last 
she  was  never  free  from  its  weight. 
There  came  a  time  when  her  personal 
life  was  work,  work,  work.  Then  there 
was  the  shadow  of  death  always  on  the 
house.  Elmina,  the  youngest  darling 
of  all,  was  fading  day  by  day  from  be 
fore  their  eyes.  Her  outgoings  were 
infrequent  and  uncertain.  The  leisure 
moments  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  were 
spent  with  her  in  her  room.  As  she 
slowly  faded,  her  sisters  became  more 
exclusively  devoted  to  her.  At  last  it 
came  to  pass  that  Alice  rarely  left  the 
house  except  on  some  errand  of  neces 
sity. 

After  Elmina's  death,  as  the  sum 
mers  came  round,  she  became  more 
and  more  loth  to  leave  her  city  home 
to  go  anywhere  into  the  country.  Not 
that  her  heart  had  let  go  of  its  old  love 
of  natural  beauty,  but  because  she  came 
to  dread  journeys  and  the  annoyance 
and  inconvenience  of  traveling.  What 
had  been  a  necessity  at  times,  during 
Elmina's  life,  remained  a  habit  after 
her  death.  By  this  time  Alice  had  her 
self  merged  into  the  invalid  of  the  fam 
ily.  The  crisis  had  come  when  nature 
demanded  change,  recreation,  and  rest. 
She  turned  her  back  on  all.  When  her 
friends  were  away,  scattered  among  the 
•hills  and  by  the  sea,  Alice,  left  alone 
behind  her  closed  blinds,  was  working 
harder  and  more  continuously  than 
ever. 

The  stifling  summers  waxed  and 
waned,  the  thermometer  would  rise  and 
glare  at  100°,  cars  and  stages  would 
rattle  beneath  her  windows,  but  through 
all  the  fiery  heat,  through  all  the  wear 
ing  thunder  of  the  streets,  the  tireless 
brain  held  on  its  fearful  tension,  and 
would  not  let  go.  Phoebe  would  spend 
a  month  in  the  country,  and  return 
with  sea-weeds  and  mountain  mosses 
and  glowing  cheeks  and  eyes,  as  tro 
phies  ;  but  not  so  would  Alice.  Not 
that  she  never  left  the  city.  She  did 
sometimes,  for  a  few  days,  but  it  was 
in  a  brief,  protesting  way,  that  had 


neither  time  nor  chance  to  work  her 
help  or  cure.  As  the  sedentary  habits 
of  her  life  increased,  and  the  circulation 
of  her  blood  lowered,  she  had  recourse 
more  and  more  to  artificial  heat,  till  at 
last  she  and  Phoebe  lived  in  a  temper 
ature  which  in  itself  was  enough  to 
make  health  impossible.  In  the  re 
laxed  condition  inevitably  produced  by 
this  furnace  atmosphere,  they  were 
sometimes  compelled  to  go  into  the 
out-door  air,  and  more  than  one  acute 
attack  of  sickness  was  the  result  to 
both  sisters. 

These  years  of  protracted  labor,  un 
broken  by  recreation,  unblessed  by  the 
resuscitating  touch  of  nature's  heal 
ing  hand,  brought  to  Alice,  shy  and 
shrinking  from  birth,  greater  shrink 
ing,  keener  suffering,  and  a  more  abid 
ing  loneliness.  She  was  never  self 
ishly  isolated.  There  was  never  a 
moment  in  her  life  when  tears  did  not 
spring  to  her  eyes,  and  help  from  her 
hand  at  the  sight  of  suffering  in  any 
living  thing.  She  would  go  half-way 
to  meet  any  true  soul.  She  never 
failed  in  faith  or  devotion  to  her 
friends.  No  less  as  the  years  went 
on,  she  felt  interiorly  more  and  more 
alone  ;  she  shrank  more  into  her  own 
inward  life,  and  more  and  more  from 
all  personal  contact  with  the  great  un 
known  world  outside  of  her  own  exist 
ence.  She  had  settled  so  deeply  into 
one  groove  of  life  and  labor,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  mortal  power  that 
could  wrest  her  out  of  it.  She  worked 
much,  but  it  was  not  work  that  harmed 
her  ;  she  was  sick,  but  was  not  sick 
enough  to  die.  The  shadow  of  death, 
falling  from  her  mother's  life  across  so 
many  of  her  sisters,  was  creeping 
slowly,  surely  up  to  her.  No  less 
there 'was  a  time  when  it  was  in  her 
power  to  have  gone  beyond  it,  out  into 
the  sunshine.  She  needed  sunshine  ; 
she  needed  fresher,  freer,  purer  air  ; 
she  needed  change  and  rest.  She 
needed  a  will,  wiser  and  more  potent 
than  her  own,  to  convince  her  of  the 
inexorable  laws  of  human  life,  and 
then  compel  her  to  their  obedience. 
She  could  never  have  entirely  escaped 
the  inevitable  penalty  of  hereditary 
law  ;  but  that  she  might  have  delayed 
it  to  the  outer  line  which  marks  the 
allotted  time  of  average  human  life,  no 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND    PHCEBE    GARY. 


one  finally  believed  more  utterly  than 
she  did.  Her  disobedience  of  the 
laws  of  life  was  the  result  of  circum 
stance,  of  condition  and  of  tempera 
ment,  rarely  a  willful  fact  ;  no  less  she 
paid  the  penalty  —  by  her  so  reluc 
tantly,  so  protestingly,  so  pathetically 
paid  —  her  life. 

At  last,  all  that  she  had  she  would 
have  given  for  her  life,  her  human  life, 
but  it  was  too  late.  I  dwell  on  the 
fact,  for  thousands  are  following  her 
example,  and  are  hurrying  on  to  her 
fate.  We  hear  so  much  of  people  dy 
ing  of  work.  Yet  work  rarely  kills  man 
or  woman.  If  it  is  work  at  all,  it  is 
work  done  in  violation  of  the  primeval 
laws  of  life  ;  it  is  work  which  a  com 
pelling  will  wrings  out  from  a  dying  or 
overtaxed  body. 

Another  summer  —  her  last  ;  the 
ceaseless,  eager  worker,  how  was  it 
with  her  now  ?  The  low,  quick  rustle 
of  her  garments  was  no  longer  heard 
upon  the  stairs.  The  graceful  form 
no  longer  bent  over  her  desk ;  the  face 
no  longer  turned  from  it,  with  the  old 
thrilling  glance  of  welcome,  to  the 
favored  comer  allowed  to  pass  the 
guarded  door  sacred  to  consecrated 
toil. 

That  winter  of  mortal  anguish  had 
done  more  to  wreck  Alice  Gary,  than 
all  the  years  which  she  had  lived  be 
fore.  The  rounded  contours  were 
wasted,  the  abundant  locks,  just 
touched  with  gray,  were  bleached 
white,  the  colorless  skin  was  tightly 
drawn  upon  the  features  ;  for  the  first 
time  she  looked  a  wreck  of  her  former 
self.  Yet  she  was  a  beautiful  wreck  ; 
the  splendor  of  her  eyes  made  her 
that.  No  agony,  no  grief,  had  been 
able  to  make  their  lustre  less  ;  till  they 
closed  in  death,  their  tender  glory 
never  went  out.  She  was  almost  a 
helpless  prisoner  now.  She  could  not 
take  a  step  save  on  crutches.  She 
could  not  stir  without  help.  Yet  that 
which  no  power  of  entreaty  could 
move  her  to  do  the  summer  before, 
she  now  longed  to  do  at  any  hazard. 
The  thunder  of  the  streets  had  be 
come  intolerable  to  her  tortured  nerves 
and  brain.  The  very  friends  who  had 
urged  her  to  leave  the  city  the  year 
before,  now  believed,  in  her  helpless 
.condition,  that  her  going  would  be  im 


possible.  No  less  she  went,  —  first  to 
Northampton. 

A  correspondent  of  the  "  New  York 
Tribune "  writes  thus  of  her  appear 
ance  at  Round  Hill  :  — 

"  Alice,  during  a  few  weeks  past, 
has  been  used  to  sit  on  the  same  east 
porch,  when  the  sunsets  have  been 
particularly  fine,  and  then  the  cane- 
seat  rocking-chair  of  the  dark-eyed 
poetess  has  become  a  sort  of  throne. 
A  respectful  little  group  has  always 
been  gathered  about  it,  and  whenever 
it  used  to  be  whispered  about  of  an 
evening,  that  Alice  Gary  had  come  out, 
somehow  the  tide  of  promenaders  used 
to  set  more  and  more  in  that  direction, 
but  always  in  a  quiet  and  reticent  man 
ner,  just  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her,  you 
know,  while  accidentally  passing  her 
chair.  I  believe  that  she  dropped 
among  the  Round  Hill  people  early 
one  day  in  August,  and  was  so  quiet 
that  she  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
myth  by  most  of  the  frequenters  of  the 
place,  never  going  into  the  dining- 
room  nor  into  the  great  parlor,  bigger 
than  a  barn  ;  but  the  people  said  she 
was  there,  and  that  she  invested  the 
house  with  an  unusual  interest.  Her 
city  home,  however  snugly  appointed, 
cannot,  I  am  sure,  compensate  one 
like  her  for  the  loss  of  country  air, 
country  sights,  and  country  sounds." 
This  writer  apparently  realized  not  her 
helpless  state.  At  that  time  she  could 
not  rise  in  her  chair  to  take  her 
crutches  without  assistance.  Yet  as 
she  sat  there  with  the  scarlet  shawl 
thrown  over  her  white  robe,  contrast 
ing  so  vividly  with  palid  face  and 
brilliant  eyes,  she  made  a  lovely  pict 
ure,  to  which  many  allusions  have 
been  made  in  public  print  since  she 
passed  away.  The  following  is  from 
Laura  Redden  ("  Howard  Glyndon  "), 
a  woman  who,  under  life-long  affliction, 
embodies  in  her  own  character  the 
beautiful  patience  and  peace  which  she 
felt  so  intuitively  and  perfectly  in  our 
friend. 

"  I  knew  her  in  every  way,  except 
through  her  own  personality.  I  knew 
her  through  others  ;  through  her  writ 
ings  ;  through  the  interpretation  of  my 
own  heart  ;  and  I  remember  very  well, 
that  once,  when  broken  in  health  and 
saddened  in  spirit,  I  felt  an  undefina- 


AT  NORTHAMPTON. 


53 


ble  impulse  to  go  to  her,  and  knew 
that  it  would  do  me  good  to  do  so. 
But  I  stopped,  and  asked  myself, 
*  Will  it  do  her  any  good  ?  What  can 
I  give  in  return  for  what  I  take  ? ' 
And  I  dismissed  the  impulse  as  self 
ish.  I  had,  in  spirit,  gone  up  to  the 
very  door  that  stood  between  us,  and 
after  hesitating,  as  I  stood  beside  it  I 
went  away.  But  while  I  stood  there, 
I  thought  of  the  meek,  sweet  sufferer 
on  the  other  side.  '  She  has  so  much 
more  to  crush  her  than  I  have,  but  she 
does  not  let  herself  be  crushed,'  I  said. 
Then  I  felt  ashamed  and  went  away, 
resolving  to  murmur  less,  and  to  strug 
gle  more  for  strength  and  patience.  I 
really  believe  that  standing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door  did  me  almost 
as  much  good  as  going  in  would  have 
done. 

"  Later,  when  I  came  to  Northamp 
ton,  I  found  that  she  was  under  the 
same  roof  with  me.  But  when  some 
one  said,  *  Would  you  like  to  see  her  ? ' 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  door  stood  ajar, 
I  drew  back,  without  knowing  why, 
and  said,  '  No,  not  now.' 

"  Once,  when  I  sat  reading  under 
the  trees,  she  came  out  leaning  upon 
her  two  friends,  one  on  each  side. 
They  spread  a  gay  shawl  on  the  grass 
for  her,  and  she  sat  there  under  the 
shining  light  which  came  through  the 
trees,  and  enjoyed  the  delicious  calm 
of  a  cool,  summer,  Sabbath  afternoon. 
How  pale  and  worn  and  weak  she 
looked,  but  how  bright  and  unself 
ish  through  it  all  !  I  watched  her, 
unseen,  and  I  prayed  very  earnestly 
that  God  would  bless  the  pure  coun 
try  air  and  the  country  quiet  to  her. 
She  thought  then  that  they  made  her 
better ;  but  there  were  greener  past 
ures  and  purer  breezes  in  store  for  her, 
and  she  was  not  to  stay  long  away  from 
them. 

"  I  remember  another  evening  that 
she  came  out  on  the  eist  porch,  and 
sat  long  in  the  dusk  of  the  twilight. 
I  sat  so  close  that  my  garments  brushed 
hers  —  but  in  the  dark  - —  quiet,  unseen, 
and  unknown  ;  and  I  was  glad  to  have 
it  so.  Somehow  there  was  an  undefin- 
able  charm  in  holding  this  relation  to  a 
person  in  whom  I  had  so  large  an  in 
terest.  It  was  so  much  better  to  feel 
that  I  knew  her  than  it  would  have 


been  to  realize  that  she  knew  me.  It 
seemed  as  if  formal  words  would  have 
taken  away  all  this  charm.  Whenever 
my  hand  was  upon  the  handle  of  the 
door,  I  drew  it  away  again  and  said, 
'  Wait  ! ' 

"  When  I  heard  the  next  morning 
that  she  was  gone,  I  was  sorry  —  not 
sorry  that  I  had  not  spoken  to  her,  but 
only  sorry  that  she  was  gone.  The 
place  had  lost  half  its  beauty  for  me." 

Alice,  who  had  promised  a  dear 
friend  to  visit  her  in  her  home  in  North 
ern  Vermont,  went  thither  from  North 
ampton.  Faithful  hands  served  her, 
strong,  gentle  arms  bore  her  on,  in 
this  last  struggle  for  life.  "  How  I 
was  ever  to  get  out  of  the  cars,  I  did 
not  know  ;  the  thought  of  it  filled  me 
with  dread  and  terror,"  she  said,  "  but 

there  was to  lift  me  out  and  carry 

me  to  the  carriage.  I  never  felt  a  jar, 
and  when  I  sat  down  in  the  bay-win 
dow,  and  saw  the  view  before  it,  and 
felt  the  loving  kindness  which  envel 
oped  me,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  reached 
heaven." 

These  words  are  written  in  that  room 
in  which  she  sat  by  the  window  where 
she  afterwards  wrote  her  "  Invalid's 
Plea."  From  this  bay-window  in  which 
she  sat,  she  looked  through  a  vista  of 
maples  out  upon  a  broad  expanse  of 
meadow-lawn,  whose  velvet  turf  is  of 
the  most  vivid  malachite  green,  soft 
ened  on  its  farther  edge  by  a  grove 
wherein  the  shades  of  spruce  and  pine, 
elm  and  maple,  contrast  and  blend. 
Beyond  these  woods  Lake  Memphre- 
magog  sets  its  glittering  shield  be 
tween  the  hills.  On  its  farther  side 
green  mountains  arise  till  they  hold 
the  white  clouds  on  their  heads.  Be 
low,  Jay  Peak  stands  over  four  thou 
sand  feet  above  the  sea,  while  above 
Owl's  Head  soars  over  three  thousand, 
covered  with  forest  to  its  summit.  It 
is  a  picture  fit  for  Paradise.  Yet  it  is 
but  one  glimpse  amid  many  of  the  in 
expressible  beauty  of  this  lake  and 
mountain  country  of  the  North.  She, 
sitting  here,  looked  out  upon  this  con 
summate  scene  ;  looked  with  her  ten 
der,  steadfast  eyes  across  these  emer 
ald  meadows,  to  the  lake  shining  upon 
her  through  the  opening  hills,  to  the 
mountains  smiling  down  on  her  from 
the  distant  heaven,  their  keen  amethyst 


54 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE    GARY. 


notching  the  deep,  deep  blue  of  a 
cloudless  sky.  The  splendor  of  this 
northern  world  fell  upon  her  like  a  new, 
divine  revelation.  The  tonic  in  its  at 
mosphere  touched  her  feeble  pulses  ; 
the  peace  brooding  in  its  stillness  pen 
etrated  her  aching  brain  with  the  prom 
ise  of  a  new  life.  Without,  the  world 
was  full  of  tranquillity  ;  within,  it  was 
full  of  affection  and  the  words  of  lov 
ing  kindness.  Then  she  wondered 
(and  her  wonder  was  sad  with  a  hope 
less  regret)  why  summer  after  summer 
she  had  lingered  in  her  city  home,  till 
the  crash  and  roar  of  the  streets,  com 
ing  through  her  open  windows,  had 
filled  body  and  brain  with  torture. 

"  How  blind  I  was  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  said  that  I  could  not  take  the  time 
from  my  work  ;  and  now  life  has  neither 
time  nor  work  left  for  me.  How  much 
more,  how  much  better  1  could  have 
worked,  had  I  rested.  If  I  am  spared, 
how  differently  I  will  do.  I  will  come 
here  every  summer,  and  live" 

Alas  !  before  another  summer,  the 
winter  snow  had  wrapped  her  forever 
from  the  earthly  sight  of  this  unuttera 
ble  beauty. 

Hers  from  the  beginning  was  the 
fatal  mistake  of  so  many  brain-workers 
—  that  all  time  given  to  refreshment 
and  rest  is  so  much  taken  from  the 
results  of  labor  ;  forgetting,  or  not 
realizing,  that  the  finer  the  instrument, 
the  more  fatal  the  effects  of  undue 
strain,  the  more  imperative  the  neces 
sity  of  avoiding  over-wear  and  the  per 
petual  jar  of  discordant  conditions  ; 
forgetting,  also,  that  the  rarest  flower 
ing  of  the  brain  has  its  root  in  silence 
and  beauty  and  rest. 

Here  in  this  window,  whither  she, 
wasted  and  suffering,  had  been  borne 
by  gentle  arms,  our  dear  friend  wrote 
her  "  Invalid's  Plea,"  one  of  the  most 
touching  of  her  many  touching  lyrics  : 

"O  Summer!  my  beautiful,  beautiful 
Summer, 

I  look  in  thy  face  and  I  long  so  to 
live  ; 

But  ah  !  h:ist  thou  room  for  an  idle 
new-comer, 

With  all  things  to  take  and  with  noth 
ing  to  give  ? 

With  all  things  to  take  of  thy  dear 
loving  kindness  — 


The  wine  of  thy  sunshine,  the  dew  of 
thy  air ; 

And  with  nothing  to  give  but  the  deaf 
ness  and  blindness 

Begot  in  the  depths  of  an  utter  despair  ? 

The  little  green  grasshopper,  weak  as 
we  deem  her, 

Chirps  clay  in  and  out  for  the  sweet 
right  to  live  ; 

And  canst  thou,  O  Summer !  make 
room  for  a  dreamer, 

With  all  things  to  take  and  with  noth 
ing  to  give  — 

Room  only  to  wrap  her  hot  cheeks  in 
thy  shadows, 

And  all  on  thy  daisy-fringed  pillow  to 
lie, 

And  dream  of  the  gates  of  the  glori 
ous  meadows, 

Where  never  a  rose  of  the  roses  shall 
die  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
ALICE'S   DEATH   AND  BURIAL. 

WHEN  a  dear  one,  dying  willingly, 
lets  go  of  life,  the  loosened  hands  by 
so  much  reconcile  us  to  their  going.  It 
was  not  so  with  Alice.  Through  phys 
ical  suffering  almost  beyond  precedent, 
through  days  and  nights  and  years 
of  hopeless  illness,  she  yet  clung  to  this 
life.  Not  through  any 'lack  of  faith  in 
the  other  and  higher;  but  because  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  not  yet  ex 
hausted  the  possibilities,  the  fullness, 
and  sweetness  of  this.  She  thought 
that  there  was  a  fruition  in  life,  in  its 
labor,  its  love,  which  she  had  never 
realized  ;  and  even  in  dying  she  longed 
for  it. 

The  autumn  before  her  death,  in  a 
poem  entitled,  "The  Flight  of  the 
Birds,"  she  uttered  this  prayer :  — 

"  Therefore  I  pray,  and  can  but  pray, 
Lord,  keep  and  bring  them  back  when 
May 

Shall  come,  with  shining  train, 
Thick  'broidered  with  leaves  of  wheat, 
And  butterflies,  and  field-pinks  sweet, 

And  yellow  bees,  and  rain. 

"  Yea,  bring  them  back  across  the  seas 
In  clouds  of  golden  witnesses  — 
The  grand,  the  grave,  the  gay ; 


HER  LAST  POEM. 


55 


And  if  thy  holy  will  it  be, 
Keep  me  alive,  once  more  to  see 
The  glad  and  glorious  day." 

It  could  not  be.  "The  golden  wit 
nesses  "  could  only  chant  their  spring 
music  above  her  couch  of  final  rest. 
Yet  within  one  month  of  death,  she 
was  busier  than  ever  with  plans  of  hap 
piness  for  others.  "Oh!  if  God  only 
could  let  me  live  ten  years  longer,"  she 
said  ;  "it  seems  as  if  I  would  n't  ask 
for  any  more  time.  I  would  live  such 
a  different  life.  I  would  never  shut 
myself  up  in  myself  again.  Then  I 
would  do  something  for  my  friends  !  " 

Phoebe,  writing  of  her  last  days, 
says  :  — 

"Though  loving  and  prizing  what 
ever  is  good  and  lovely  here,  and  keep 
ing  firm  and  tender  hold  of  the  things 
that  are  seen,  yet  she  always  reached 
one  hand  to  grasp  the  unseen  and 
eternal.  She  believed  that  God  is  not 
far  from  any  one  of  us,  and  that  the 
sweet  communion  of  friends  who  are 
only  separated  by  the  shadowy  cur 
tain  of  death,  might  still  remain  un 
broken. 

"  During  her  last  year  of  illness  she 
delighted  much  in  the  visits  of  her 
friends  ;  entered  with  keenest  zest  into 
their  hopes  and  plans,  and  liked  to 
hear  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  the 
world  from  which  she  was  now  shut. 
She  talked  much  of  a  better  country 
with  those  who  came  to  talk  to  her 
upon  the  land  to  which  her  steps  drew 
near ;  and  so  catholic  and  free  from 
prejudice  was  her  spirit,  that  many  of 
those  friends  whom  she  loved  best,  and 
with  whom  she  held  the  most  sacred 
communion,  differed  widely  from  her 
self  in  their  religious  faith. 

"  She  loved  to  listen  to  the  reading 
of  poetry  and  of  pleasant  stories,  but 
not  latterly  to  anything  of  an  exciting 
or  painful  nature  ;  and  often  wanted  to 
hear  the  most  tender  and  comforting 
chapters  of  the  Gospels,  especially 
those  which  tell  of  the  Saviour's  love 
for  women.  At  the  beginning  of  each 
month  she  had  been  accustomed  for 
some  time  to  furnishing  a  poem  to  one 
of  our  city  papers.  On  the  first  of  that 
month  of  which  she  never  saw  the  end 
ing,  she  was  unable  to  write  or  even  to 
dictate.  A  whole  week  had  gone  by, 


when,  speaking  suddenly  one  day  with 
something  of  the  old  energy,  she  asked 
to  be  placed  in  her  chair,  and  to  have 
her  portfolio,  saying,  "  That  article 
must  be  ready  to-day."  She  was  helped 
from  the  bed  as  she  desired,  and  though 
unable  to  sit  up  without  being  carefully 
supported,  she  completed  the  task  to 
which  she  had  set  herself.  The  last 
stanza  she  wrote  reads  thus  :  — 

"'As    the    poor   panting   hart   to    the 

water-brook  runs, 

As  the  water-brook  runs  to  the  sea, 
So  earth's  fainting  daughters  and  fam 
ishing  sons, 
O  Fountain  of  Love,  run  to  Thee  ! ' 

"  The  writing  is  trembling  and  un 
certain,  and  the  pen  literally  fell  from 
her  hand  ;  for  the  long  shadows  of 
eternity  were  stealing  over  her,  and 
she  was  very  near  the  place  where  it  is 
too  dark  for  mortal  eyes  to  see,  and 
where  there  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor 
knowledge." 

She  had  written  earlier  what  she 
herself  called  "A  Dying  Hymn,"  and  it 
was  a  consolation  to  her  to  repeat  it  to 
herself  in  her  moments  of  deepest 
agony. 

Earth,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills, 

Recedes,  and  fades  away  ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  : 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song  ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight  ; 
The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green,  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives, 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go  : 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  — 

That  I  shall  live  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King  ; 

O  grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
O  death  !  where  is 'thy  sting? 

As  her  strength  failed,  she  grew  more 


ME  AW  RIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


and  more  fond  of  the  hymns  of  her 
childhood,  and  frequently  asked  her 
friends  to  sing  such  hymns  as,  Jesus, 
Lover  of  my  soul,"  "  Show  pity,  Lord, 

0  Lord,  forgive,"  "  A  charge  to  keep 

1  have ;  "  and  she  loved  to  have  them 
sung  to  old  tunes. 

Her  frequent  quotation  from  Holy 
Scripture,  when  in  intense  piin,  was, 
"  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust 
in  Him." 

On  Tuesday,  February  7,  she-  wrote 
her  last  poem,  the  last  line  of  which  is, 
"  The  rainbow  comes  but  with  the 
cloud."  Even  after  that,  she  attempted 
in  her  bed  to  made  a  cap  for  an  aged 
woman  who  greatly  loved  her,  and 
whose  sobs  in  the  Church  of  the 
Stranger,  when  her  death  was  an 
nounced,  moved  the  whole  audience  to 
tears.  But  her  fingers  failed,  and  the 
needle  stands  in  the  unfinished  cap  ; 
for  her  own  crown  was  ready,  and  she 
could  not  stay  away  from  her  coronation. 
She  fell  in  a  deep  sleep,  out  of  which 
she  once  exclaimed,  "  I  want  to  go 
away."  She  passed  away  as  she  had 
always  desired  —  waking  into  the  better 
land  out  of  a  slumber  in  this.  "  For  so 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

The  last  published  words  that  Phoe 
be  ever  wrote  of  her  sister  were  these  : 
"  Life  was  to  Alice  Gary  no  holiday, 
and  though  her  skies  had  gracious 
hours  of  sunshine,  they  had  also  many 
dark  and  heavy  clouds  ;  and  going 
back  in  memory  now,  I  cannot  recall  a 
time  when,  looking  upon  her  face,  even 
during  the  deepest  slumber  that  she 
ever  knew,  I  could  not  see  there  the 
sad  characters  of  weariness  and  pain  ; 
until  I  beheld  her  at  last  resting  from 
her  labors  in  that  sweet,  untroubled 
sleep  which  God  giveth  his  beloved." 

When,  February  13,  1870,  the  tele 
graphic  dispatch  swept  through  the 
land  saying,  "Alice  Gary  died  yester 
day.  She  will  be  buried  to-morrow, 
from  the  Church  of  the  Stranger,"  the 
announcement  was  followed  by  a  si 
multaneous  outburst  of  sorrow.  Almost 
every  journal  throughout  the  country 
published  a  biographical  sketch,  ac 
companied  with  expressions  of  per 
sonal  loss.  In  hundreds  of  these  no 
tices,  still  preserved,  the  remarkable 
feature  is  that  no  matter  how  remote 
the  journal  in  which  each  was  pub 


lished,  it  is  more  an  expression  of  in 
dividual  sorrow  at  the  departure  of  a 
beloved  friend,  than  of  mere  regret  at 
the  death  of  an  author.  Thus,  quot 
ing  at  random,  we  find  whole  columns 
of  her  life  beginning  with  sentences 
like  these  :  "  With  a  sense  of  bereave 
ment  that  we  cannot  express,  we  record 
the  death  of  our  dear  friend,  Alice 
Gary." 

"  The  bare  mention  of  the  death  of 
Alice  Gary  will  be  sadly  sufficient  to 
cause  a  feeling  of  sorrow  in  many  a 
household  in  every  part  of  the  coun 
try." 

"  A  woman  who  could  stand  up  for 
her  rights  without  arousing  the  ani 
mosities  of  others,  who  was  a  philan 
thropist  without  either  cant,  affecta 
tion,  or  bitterness,  who  wrote  many 
true  poems,  but  lived  one  sweeter  and 
truer  than  she  ever  wrote  ;  such  was 
our  universally  beloved  Alice  Gary. 
May  He  that  giveth  his  beloved  peace, 
give  us,  who  knew  her  beautiful  life, 
the  grace  to  imitate  it." 

"  She  had  created  for  herself  many 
friends  whom  she  never  saw,  and  many 
who  had  never  seen  her  until  they  be 
held  her  lying  in  her  last  sleep  in  the 
house  of  prayer.  Among  these  was 
one  gentleman  well  known  in  scien 
tific  circles,  —  a  man  supposed  to  have 
little  of  poetic  juice  in  the  dry  composi 
tion  of  his  nature.  He  surprised  a 
friend  who  sat  near  him,  by  his  exhi 
bition  of  feeling  while  the  address  was 
delivered  ;  and  at  the  close,  in  explana 
tion  of  his  great  emotion,  he  said  :  *  I 
have  read  every  line  that  woman  ever 
published.  I  have  never  spoken  to 
her  ;  but  I  tell  you  she  was  the  larg 
est-hearted  woman  that  ever  lived  !  ' ' 

A  letter  from  New  York  to  the 
"Boston  Post,"  dated  February  15, 
1870,  contains  the  following  allusions 
to  her  funeral  :  — 

"  Dear  Alice  Gary,  sweet  singer  of 
the  heart,  is  gone.  New  York  was 
shrouded  in  snow  when  her  gentle  face 
was  shut  away  from  human  sight  for 
ever.  In  the  plain  little  Church  of  the 
Stranger,  with  her  true  friend,  Dr. 
Deems,  officiating,  and  many  other 
true  friends  gathered  around  in  mourn 
ing  silence,  with  streets  all  muffled  into 
sympathetic  stillness  by  the  heavy  drift 
ing  snow,  and  deep,  strong  sorrow  ris- 


ALICE'S  FUATERAL   SERMON". 


57 


ing  from  hearts  to  eyes,  the  sad  fu 
neral  rites  were  performed.  Rarely  has 
a  more  touching  scene  been  witnessed 
than  that  which  separated  Alice  Gary 
from  the  world  that  loved  her.  Many 
of  those  present  were  moved  to  tears, 
though  only  one  was  bound  to  her  by 
kinship.  That  one  was  her  sister 
Phoebe,  her  constant  companion  from 
childhood,  and  more  than  her  sister  — 
her  second  self — through  thirty  years 
of  literary  trial.  The  little  church  was 
filled  with  literary  friends  who  had 
grown  warmly  attached  to  both  during 
their  twenty  years'  residence  in  New 
York.  All  the  members  of  Sorosis 
were  present  to  pay  a  final  tribute  to 
her  who  had  been  their  first  President. 
Many  prominent  journalists  and  au 
thors  were  also  there,  forgetful,  for  the 
time,  of  all  but  the  solemn  sadness 
around  them.  Near  the  rosewood  cof 
fin  that  contained  the  body  of  the 
sweet  poet,  sat  Horace  Greeley,  Bay 
ard  Taylor,  Richard  B.  Kimball,  Oliver 
Johnson,  P.  T.  Barnum,  Frank  B.  Car 
penter,  A.  J.  Johnson,  and  Dr.  W.  W. 
Hall,  who,  for  near  and  special  friend 
ship  during  her  life,  were  chosen  to  be 
nearest  to  her  to  the  grave.  When  the 
sad  rites  of  the  Church  were  con 
cluded,  the  body  was  borne  forth  and 
taken  to  Greenwood  Cemetery,  the 
snow  still  falling  heavily,  and  covering 
all  things  with  a  pure  white  shroud. 
It  seemed  as  though  nature  were  in 
sympathy  with  human  sorrow,  till  the 
grave  was  closed,  for  then  the  snow 
almost  ceased,  though  the  sky  re 
mained  dark,  and  the  silence  con 
tinued.  And  thus  the  mortal  part  of 
Alice  Gary  was  laid  at  rest  forever." 

Horace  Greeley,  speaking  in  private 
of  her  obsequies,  said  that  such  a  fu 
neral  never  before  gathered  in  New 
York  in  honor  of  any  woman,  or  man 
either  ;  that  he  never  saw  before  in 
any  one  assembly  of  the  kind,  so  many 
distinguished  men  and  women,  so  many 
known  and  so  many  unknown. 

One  of  the  greatest  scholars  of  his 
time,  sitting  there,  shed  a  silent  tear 
for  the  sister-woman  who,  alone,  unas 
sisted,  in  life  and  death  had  honored 
human  nature  ;  while  a  few  seats  off 
wept  aloud  the  women,  poor  and  old, 
who  had  lived  upon  her  tender  bounty. 

The    next    morning's    issue    of    the 


"  Tribune  "  gave  the  following  report 
of  the  funeral : 

ALICE  GARY'S  FUNERAL. 

The  funeral  of  Miss  Alice  Gary  took 
place  at  the  Church  of  the  Stranger, 
on  Mercer  Street,  at  one  o'clock  yes 
terday  afternoon  ;  and,  despite  the 
severe  snow-storm  which  must  have 
prevented  many  from  coming,  was  at 
tended  by  a  very  large  number  of  the 
friends  and  admirers  of  the  deceased 
poet.  The  'service  opened  with  an 
organ  voluntary  from  the  "  Messiah," 
followed  by  the  anthem,  "  Vital  Spark 
of  Heavenly  Flame."  Dr.  Deems,  the 
pastor  of  the  Church,  read  a  selection 
from  the  I5th  chapter  of  St.  Paul's 
Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  and  then 
said  :  — 

"  I  have  not  thought  of  a  single 
word  to  say  to  you  to-day,  and  I  do 
not  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  say 
one  word  more  than  is  set  down  in  the 
Church  service.  Most  of  us  knew  and 
loved  Alice  Gary,  and  to  those  who 
did  not  know  her,  my  words  would  fail 
in  describing  the  sweetness  and  gen 
tleness  of  her  disposition  and  temper. 
It  seems,  indeed,  that  instead  of  stand 
ing  here,  I,  too,  should  be  sitting  there 
among  the  mourners." 

The  speaker  then  described  the  pa 
tience  with  which  she  had  borne  her 
last  sickness,  and  told  how  he  had 
been  by  her  side  when  the  pain  was  so 
intense,  that  the  prints  of  her  finger 
nails  would  be  left  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand  as  he  was  holding  hers.  But  she 
never  made  a  complaint. 

"  She  was  a  parishioner,"  said  he, 
"  who  came  very  close  to  my  heart  in 
her  suffering  and  sorrow.  I  saw  how 
good  and  true  she  was,  and  the  inter 
est  she  had  in  all  the  work  I  had  in 
hand ;  and  I  feel  as  if  an  assistant 
had  died  out  of  my  family.  The  peo 
ple  of  my  congregation  who  did  not 
know  her,  ought  to  be  glad  that  I  did. 
How  many  traits  of  tenderness  have 
come  before  you  here,  how  many  ob 
servations  have  I  been  able  to  make  to 
you,  because  I  had  been  with  her  ! 
To-day  I  can  only  make  my  lament 
over  her  as  you  do,  in  the  simplicity  of 
affection.  Men  loved  Alice  Gary,  and 
women  loved  her.  When  a  man  loves 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


a  woman,  it  is  of  nature  :  when  a 
woman  loves  a  woman,  it  is  of  grace  — 
of  the  grace  that  woman  makes  by  her 
loveliness  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  finest 
things  that  can  be  said  of  Alice  Gary, 
that  she  had  such  troops  of  friends  of 
her  own  sex.  On  the  public  side  of 
her  life  she  had  honor,  on  the  private 
side,  honor  and  tenderest  affection. 

"  And  now  she  has  gone  from  our 
mortal  sight,  but  not  from  the  eyes  of 
our  souls.  She  is  gone  from  her  pain, 
as  she  desired  to  die,  in  sleep,  and  af 
ter  a  deep  slumber  she  has  passed 
into  the  morning  of  immortality.  The 
last  time  I  saw  her,  I  took  down  her 
works  and  alighted  on  this  passage,  so 
full  of  consonance  with  the  anthems 
just  sung  by  the  choir,  and  almost  like 
a  prophecy  of  the  manner  in  which 
she  passed  away  :  — 

"  *  My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song, 

My  blindness  is  my  sight  ; 
The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light.' 

"  There  was  one  thing  in  Alice  Gary 
of  which  we  had  better  remind  our 
selves  now,  because  many  of  us  are 
working-people,  and  people  who  work 
very  much  with  our  brains  ;  and  I  see 
a  number  of  young  people  who  are 
come,  out  of  tenderness  to  her  mem 
ory,  to  the  church  to-day,  and  there 
may  be  among  them  literary  people 
just  commencing  their  career,  and  they 
say,  '  Would  I  could  write  so  beauti 
fully  and  so  easily  as  she  did  ! '  It 
was  not  easily  done.  She  did  nothing 
easily  ;  but  in  all  this  that  we  read  she 
was  an  earnest  worker  ;  she  was  faith 
ful,  painstaking,  careful  of  improving 
herself,  up  to  the  last  moment  of  her 
life.  Yesterday  I  looked  into  the 
drawer,  and  the  last  piece  of  MS.  she 
wrote  turned  up,  and  I  said  to  Phoebe, 
'That  is  copied  ;  '  and  she  said,  *  No, 
that  is  Alice's  writing.'  It  was  so  ex 
ceedingly  plain,  it  looked  like  print  in 
large  type,  though  she  wrote  a  very 
wretched  hand.  But  her  sister  told 
me  that  when  she  came  to  be  so  weak 
that  she  couldn't  write  much  any 
longer,  she  began  to  practice  like  a 
little  girl,  to  learn  to  form  all  her  let 
ters  anew.  She  worked  to  the  very 
last,  not  only  with  the  brains,  but  the 
fingers. 


"  When  Phoebe  wrote  me  last  Sun 
day  that  she  was  alone,  and  that  Alice 
was  gone,  I  couldn't  help  telling  my 
people,  and  there  was  a  sob  heard  that 
went  through  the  congregation.  It 
was  from  an  old  lady,  a  friend  of  hers, 
who  often  told  me  about  her,  and 
spoke  of  her  nobility  of  soul.  Alice 
Gary  once  thought  of  making  a  cap 
for  her,  and  she  said,  *  I  will  make  a 
cap  for  Mrs.  Brown,'  but  her  fingers 
ached  so,  and  her  arm  became  so 
tired,  she  had  to  drop  it  ;  and  the 
needle  is  sticking  in  that  unfinished 
cap  now,  just  as  she  left  it.  She 
would  have  finished  it,  but  they  had  fin 
ished  her  own  crown  in  glory,  and  she 
could  n't  stay  away  from  her  corona 
tion.  And  we  will  keep  that  cap  with 
care  ;  and  I  think  Jesus  will  remind 
her  of  it,  and  say,  'Child,  inasmuch 
as  you  did  it  to  one  of  the  least  ones, 
you  did  it  unto  me.'  Should  I  speak 
for  hours,  I  could  only  tell  you  how 
I  loved  her.  She  came  to  me  in  the 
winter  of  my  fortunes,  when  I  had 
very  fe\v  friends,  and  I  loved  her,  and 
will  revere  her  memory  forever — for 
ever.  And  now  I  will  not  shed  a  tear 
for  Alice  Gary  ;  I  am  glad  she  is  gone. 
I  felt  at  once  like  saying,  '  Thanks  be 
to  God,'  when  I  heard  that  the  pain 
was  over  ;  and  it  was  so  delightful  to 
go  to  stand  over  her,  and  see  her  face 
without  a  single  frown,  and  to  think, 
'  She  is  gone  to  her  Father  and  my 
Father  ; '  and  into  his  hands  I  commit 
her." 

After  the  Episcopal  Burial  Service 
had  been  read,  the  choir  sang  a  hymn 
composed  by  Miss  Phoebe  Gary,  called, 
'k  What  Sweetly  Solemn  Thoughts." 
Then  the  friends  of  Alice  Gary  were 
requested  to  look  upon  her  for  the  last 
time.  The  body  was  taken  to  Green 
wood  Cemetery  for  interment.  The 
pall-bearers  were  Horace  Greeley, 
Bayard  Taylor,  P.  T.  Barnum,  Oliver 
Johnson,  Dr.  W.  F.  Holcombe,  A.  J. 
Johnson,  F.  B.  Carpenter,  and  Richard 
B.  Kimball.  Among  the  persons  pres 
ent  were  Wm.  Ross  Wallace,  the  Rev. 
O.  B.  Frothingham,  the  Rev.  G.  F.  Lee, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Cookman,  James  Parton, 
Fanny  Fern,  Mrs.  Professor  Botta, 
Theodore  Tilton,  Dr.  Hallock,  Mrs. 
Croly,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  John  Savage, 
George  Ripley,  and  many  others. 


PHCEBE    GARY,    THE    WRITER. 


59 


The  casket  was  plain,  having  merely 
a  silver  plate,  on  which  was  inscribed  : 
"Alice  Gary.  A.  D.  1820;  A.  D.  1871." 

At  a  special  meeting  of  Sorosis, 
yesterday  morning,  the  following  pre 
amble  and  resolutions  were  read  and 
adopted  :  — 

"  In  Miss  Gary's  inaugural  address 
to  Sorosis,  occurs  a  passage  made 
memorable  by  the  late  sad  event. 
After  enlarging  upon  her  own  hopes 
and  wishes  concerning  the  growth  and 
position  which  women  should  yet  at 
tain,  and  the  manner  in  which  they 
should  yet  vindicate  themselves  against 
all  unjust  charges,  she  said  :  '  Some  of 
us  cannot  hope  to  see  great  results, 
for  our  feet  are  already  on  the  down 
hill  side  of  life.  The  shadows  are 
lengthening  behind  us  and  gathering 
before  us,  and  ere  long  they  will  meet 
and  close,  and  the  places  that  have 
known  us  shall  no  us  know  more.  But 
if,  when  our  poor  work  is  done,  any  of 
those  who  come  after  us  shall  find  in 
it  some  hint  of  usefulness  toward  no 
bler  lives,  and  better  and  more  endur 
ing  work,  we  for  ourselves  rest  con 
tent.' 

"  Sooner,  perhaps,  than  she  then 
thought,  the  way  began  to  narrow,  and 
her  feet  to  falter  on  the  road  which 
leads  to  immortal  life  ;  and, 

"  Whereas,  This  change,  so  feelingly 
alluded  to  by  Miss  Gary,  has  finally 
overtaken  her  in  the  midst  of  her 
labors  ;  therefore, 

"  Resolved,  That  in  her  removal  this 
Society  not  only  mourns  the  loss  of  its 
first  President  and  most  gifted  member, 
but  sympathizes  with  all  womanhood 
in  the  loss  of  an  earnest  helper  and 
most  devoted  friend. 

"  Resolved,  That  her  exceeding  kind 
ness,  her  enlarged  charity,  her  abso 
lute  unselfishness,  her  wonderful  pa 
tience,  her  cordial  recognition  of  every 
good  word  and  work,  endeared  her  in 
expressibly  to  her  friends  ;  while  her 
genius  commanded  the  warmest  admi 
ration  of  all  those  capable  of  appre 
ciating  sweetest  expression  married  to 
noblest  thought. 

"  Resolved,  That  her  loyalty  to  wom 
an,  and  her  unceasing  industry,  shall 
incite  us  to  renewed  earnestness  of 
effort,  each  in  our  own  appointed  place, 
to  hasten  the  time  when  women  shall 


receive  recognition  not  only  as  honest 
and  reliable  workers,  but  as  a  class 
faithful  and  true  to  each  other. 

"  Resolved,  That  in  presenting  our 
heartfelt  sympathy  to  the  bereaved  and 
lonely  sister,  we  add  the  loving  hope, 
that  even  as  the  shadows  have  been 
swept  from  the  bright,  upward  path 
way  of  the  departed  spirit,  they  may 
also  be  dispelled  from  her  sorrowing 
heart,  by  an  abiding  faith  in  that  Love 
which  ordereth  all  things  well." 

Rev.  Henry  M.  Field,  long  a  kind 
friend  to  both  sisters,  in  a  sketch  of 
Alice  in  the  "  New  York  Evangelist," 
thus  referred  both  to  Mr.  Greeley  and 
the  funeral  of  Alice  :  — 

"  No  wonder  Mr.  Greeley  felt  so 
deeply  the  death  of  one  who  had  been 
to  him  as  a  sister,  that  he  followed  so 
tenderly  at  her  bier,  and  in  spite  of  the 
terrible  snow-storm  that  was  raging, 
insisted  on  following  her  remains  to 
Greenwood,  determined  not  to  leave 
them  till  they  were  laid  in  their  last 
resting-place.  She  was  buried  on 
Tuesday,  amid  one  of  the  most  violent 
storms  of  the  winter.  It  seems  sad  to 
leave  one  we  love  in  such  desolation. 
But  the  storms  cannot  disturb  her 
repose.  There  let  her  sleep,  sweet, 
gentle  spirit,  child  of  nature  and  of 
song.  The  spring  will  come,  and  the 
grass  grow  green  on  her  grave,  and 
the  flowers  bloom,  emblems  of  the 
resurrection  unto  life  everlasting." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
PHCEBE   GARY.  —  THE   WRITER. 

No  singer  was  ever  more  thoroughly 
identified  with  her  own  songs  than 
Phoebe  Gary.  With  but  few  excep 
tions,  they  distilled  the  deepest  and 
sweetest  music  of  her  soul.  They 
uttered,  besides,  the  cheerful  philoso 
phy  which  life  had  taught  her,  and  the 
sunny  faith  which  lifted  her  out  of  the 
dark  region  of  doubt  and  fear,  to  rest 
forever  in  the  loving  kindness  of  her 
Heavenly  Father.  There  were  few 
things  that  she  ever  wrote  for  which 
she  cared  more  personally  than  for 
her  "Woman's  Conclusions."  The 
thought  and  the  regret  came  to  her 


6o 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   PHCEBE    GARY. 


sometimes,  as  they  do  to  most  of  us, 
that  in  the  utmost  sense  her  life  was 
incomplete  —  unfulfilled.  Often  and 
long  she  pondered  on  this  phase  of 
existence  ;  and  her  "  Woman's  Con 
clusions,"  copied  below,  were  in  reality 
her  final  conclusions  concerning  that 
problem  of  human  fate  which  has  baf 
fled  so  many. 

A  WOMAN'S   CONCLUSIONS. 

I  said,  if  I  might  go  back  again 

To   the  very  hour  and  place   of  my 
birth  ; 

Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  chose, 
And  live  it  in  any  part  of  the  earth  ; 

Put  perfect  sunshine  into  my  sky, 
Banish    the    shadow  of   sorrow  and 
doubt ; 

Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied, 
And  all  my  suffering  stricken  out  ; 

If   I  could  have  known,  in  the  years 

now  gone, 
The   best   that   a  woman   comes    to 

know  ; 
Could   have    had   whatever  will   make 

her  blest, 

Or  whatever   she  thinks  will  make 
her  so  : 

Have  found  the  highest  and  purest  bliss 
That  the  bridal-wreath  and  ring  in 
close  ; 

And  gained  the  one  out  of  all  the  world, 
That  my  heart  as  well  as  my  reason 
chose ; 

And  if  this  had  been,  and  I  stood  to 
night 
By  my  children,  lying  asleep  in  their 

beds, 
And  could  count  in  my  prayers,  for  a 

rosary, 

The    shining    row    of    their    golden 
heads  ; 

Yea  !   I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 
Could  be  wrought  for  me,  at  my  bid 
ding,  still 

I  would  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it  is, 
And  to  let  my  future  come  as  it  will ! 

I  would  not  make  the  path  I  have  trod 
More  pleasant  or  even,  more  straight 
or  wide  ; 


Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of 

a  hair, 
This  way  or  that  way,  to  either  side. 

My  past  is  mine,  and  I  take  it  all  ; 

Its  weakness  —  its  folly,  if  you  please; 
Nay,  even  my  sins,  if  you  come  to  that, 

May  have  been  my  helps,  not  hin 
drances  ! 

If  I  saved  my  body  from  the  flames 
Because  that  once  I  had  burned  my 

hand  : 

Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By  doing   a  less — you   will  under 
stand  ; 

It  was  better  I  suffered  a  little  pain, 

Better  I  sinned  for  a  little  time, 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  back  from 

death, 

And  the  sting  of  sin  withheld  from 
crime. 

Who  knows  its  strength,  by  trial,  will 

know 
What  strength  must  be  set  against  a 

sin  ; 

And  how  temptation  is  overcome 
He    has   learned,    who    has    felt  its 
power  within  ! 

And  who  knows  how  a  life  at  the  last 

may  show  ? 
Why,  look  at  the  moon  from  where 

we  stand  ! 

Opaque,  uneven,  you  say  ;  yet  it  shines, 
A    luminous    sphere,    complete    and 
grand. 

So  let  my  past  stand,  just  as  it  stands. 
And  let  me  now,  as  I  may,  grow  old  ; 

I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best  —  or  it  had  not  been,  I 
hold. 

The  guarded  castle,  the  lady  in  her 
bower,  the  tumbling  sea,  the  ship 
wrecked  mariner,  were  as  real  to  Alice 
as  to  herself  when  she  yielded  to  the 
luxury  of  ballad  singing.  But  in  Phoe 
be  the  imaginative  faculty  was  less  pre 
vailing  ;  it  rose  to  flood-tide  only  at 
intervals.  The  dual  nature  which  she 
inherited  from  her  father  and  mother 
were  not  interfused,  as  in  Alice,  but 
distinct  and  keenly  defined.  Through 
one  nature,  Phoebe  Cary  was  the  most 


PHCEBE'S  PARODIES. 


61 


literal  of  human  beings.  Never  did 
there  live  such  a  disenchanter.  Hold 
up  to  her,  in  her  literal,  every-day 
mood,  your  most  precious  dream,  and 
in  an  instant,  by  a  single  rapier  of  a 
sentence,  she  would  thrust  it  through, 
and  strip  it  of  the  last  vestige  of  gla 
mour,  and  you  see  nothing  before  you 
but  a  cold,  staring  fact,  ridiculous  or 
dismal.  It  was  this  tenacious  grip  on 
reality,  this  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
in  the  relation  between  words  and 
things,  which  made  her  the  most  spon 
taneous  of  punsters,  and  a  very  queen 
of  parodists.  Her  parodies  are  unsur 
passed.  An  example  of  this  literal 
faculty  by  which  she  could  instanta 
neously  transmute  a  spiritual  emotion 
into  a  material  fact,  is  found  in  a  verse 
from  her  parody  on  Longfellow's  beau 
tiful  lyric  :  — 

"  I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 
A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain." 

Phoebe  preserves  all  the  sadness  and 
tenderness  of  the  original,  while  she 
transfers  it  without  effort  from  the 
psychological  yearning  of  the  soul,  into 
the  region  of  physical  necessity,  from 
heart-longing  to  stomach-longing,  in 
the  travesty  :  — 

"  I  see  the  lights  of  the  baker 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist, 
And    a  feeling    of    something   comes 
o'er  me, 

That  my  steps  cannot  resist ; 
A  feeling  of  something  like  longing, 

And  slightly  akin  to  pain, 
That  resembles  hunger  more  than 

The  mist  resembles  rain." 

"  Maud  Muller  "  is  one  of  the  most 
sentimental  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
exquisite  of  modern  ballads,  yet  what 
it  prompts  in  Phoebe  is  not  a  tear  for 
the  faded  woman  sitting  under  the 
chimney  log,  nor  a  sigh  for  the  judge 
who  wholly  deserves  his  fate,  nor  even 
an  alas  !  for  the  "  might  have  been." 
It  prompts  in  her,  as  the  most  natural 
antithesis  in  the  world,  — 


KATE    KETCHEM. 

Kate  Ketchem  on  a  winter's  night 
Went  to  a  party  dressed  in  white. 

Her  chignon  in  a  net  of  gold 

Was  about  as  large  as  they  ever  sold. 

Gayly  she  went,  because  her  "  pap  " 
Was  supposed  to  be  a  rich  old  chap. 

But  when  by  chance  her  glances  fell 
On    a  friend  who   had   lately  married 
well, 

Her  spirits  sunk,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And    a   nameless    longing    filled    her 
breast  — 

A  wish  she  would  n't  have  had  made 

known, 

To     have    an     establishment    of    her 
own. 

Tom   Fudge  came   slowly  through  the 

throng, 
With  chestnut  hair,  worn  pretty  long. 

He  saw  Kate  Ketchem  in  the  crowd, 
And    knowing    her     slightly,  stopped 
and  bowed  ; 

Then  asked   her  to  give  him  a  single 

flower, 
Saying  he  'd  think  it  a  priceless  dower. 

Out  from  those  with   which    she  was 

decked, 
She  took  the  poorest  she  could  select, 

And  blushed  as   she  gave   it,  looking 

down 
To  call  attention  to  her  gown. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Fudge,  and  he  thought 

how  dear 
Flowers  must  be  at  that  time  of  year. 

Then    several    charming   remarks    he 

made, 
Asked     if     she    sang,    or   danced,    or 

played  ; 

And  being  exhausted,  inquired 
whether 

She  thought  it  was  going  to  be  pleas 
ant  weather. 


62 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND  PHCEBE    GARY. 


And  Kate  displayed  her  "jewelry," 
And  dropped  her  lashes  becomingly  ; 

And  listened,  with  no   attempt  to  dis 
guise  _ 
The  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

At  last,   like  one   who  has  nothing  to 

say, 
He  turned  around  and  walked  away. 

Kate  Ketchem  smiled,  and  said,  '•  You 

bet 
I  '11  catch  that  Fudge   and  his  money 

yet. 

"  He 's    rich    enough    to   keep    me    in 

clothes, 
And   I    think   I  could  manage  him  as 

I  chose. 

•'  He  could  aid    my  father  as   well  as 

not, 
And  buy  my  brother  a  splendid  yacht. 

"  My  mother  for  money  should  never 

.  fret, 

And  all  it  cried  for,  the  baby  should 
get. 

"  And   after  that,  with  what  he  could 

spare, 
I  'd  make  a  show  at  a  charity  fair." 

Tom  FucUye  looked  back  as  he  crossed 

the  sill, 
And     saw     Kate    Ketchem     standing 

still. 

"  A  girl  more  suited  to  my  mind 
It  is  n't  an  easy  thing  to  find  ; 

"And  everything  that  she  has  to  wear 
Proves  her  rich  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day 
Had  the  old  man's  cash   my  debts  to 
pay  ! 

"  No  creditors  with  a  long  account, 
No    tradesmen    wanting     '  that    little 
amount  ;  ' 

"  But  all  my  scores  paid  up  when  due 
By  a  father-in-law  as  rich  as  a  Jew  !  " 

But    he    thought    of    her   brother   not 
worth  a  straw 


And  her  mother,  that  would  be  his,  in 
law; 

So,  undecided,  he  walked  along, 

And  Kate  was  left  alone  in  the  throng. 

But  a  lawyer  smiled,  whom  he   sought 

by  stealth, 
To  ascertain  old  Ketchem's  wealth  ; 

And    as    for    Kate    she    schemed    and 

planned 
Till    one  of    the  dancers  claimed  her 

hand. 

He  married  her  for  her  father's  cash  ; 
She  married  him  to  cut  a  dash. 

But  as  to    paying   his    debts,  do    you 

know, 
The  father  could  n't  see  it  so  ; 

And   at    hints    for    help,   Kate's    hazel 

eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

And  when  Torn  thought    of    the   way 

he  had  wed, 
He  longed  for  a  single  life  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  in  a  sulky  mood, 
Regretting  the  days  of  his   bachelor 
hood  ; 

And  said,  in  a  sort  of  reckless  vein, 
"  I  'd  like  to  see  her  catch  me  again, 

"  If  I  were  free,  as  on  that  night 
When  I  saw  Kate    Ketchem    dressed 
in  white  !  " 

She  wedded  him  to  be  rich  and  gay  ; 
But     husband     and    children    did  n't 
pay. 

He  was  n't  the  prize  she  hoped  to 
draw, 

And  would  n't  live  with  his  mother-in- 
law. 

And  oft  when    she    had    to  coax  and 

pout, 
In  order  to  get  him  to  take  her  out, 

She    thought   how  very  attentive    and 

bright 
He   seemed  at  the  party  that  winter's 

night  ; 


DRAMATIC  POWER. 


Of   his  laugh,  as  soft  as  a  breeze    of 

the  south 
('T  was  now  on  the  other  side  of  his 

mouth) ; 

How  he  praised  her  dress  and    gems 

in  his  talk, 
As  he  took  a  careful  account  of  stock. 

Sometimes      she       hated      the      very 

walls  — 
Hated    her    friends,  her   dinners,  and 

calls  ; 

Till    her    weak    affection,    to    hatred 

turned, 
Like  a  dying  tallow-candle  burned. 

And  for  him  who  sat  there,  her  peace 

to  mar, 
Smoking  his  everlasting  cigar  — 

He  was  n't  the  man  she  thought  she 

saw, 
And  grief  was  duty,  and  hate  w.is  law. 

So    she    took    up  her   burden    with   a 

groan, 
Saying  only,  "  I  might  have  known  ! ' 

Alas  for  Kate  !  and  alas  for  Fudge  ! 
Though     I    do    not    owe     them     any 
grudge  ; 

And    alas    for  any  who  find    to    their 

shame 
That  two  can  play  at  their  little  game  ! 

For  of   all    hard    things  to    beir    and 

grin, 
The   hardest  is  knowing  you're   taken 

in. 

Ah,  well,  as  a  general  thing,  we  fret 
About  the  one  we  did  n't  get; 

But  I  think  we  need  n't  make  a  fuss, 
If  the  one   we   don't  want  did  n't  get 
us. 

Her  dual  nature  is  strikingly  illus 
trated  in  many  of  her  poems.  Purely 
naturalistic  in  their  conception,  as  they 
rise  they  are  touched  and  glorified  with 
the  supernatural.  It  does  not  blend 
with  the  essence  of  her  song,  while 
that  of  Alice  is  all  suffused  with  it. 
The  form  and  flavor  of  the  latter's 


verse  is  often  mystical.  Her  sympa 
thies  are  deeply  human,  her  love  of 
nature  a  passion  ;  yet  it  is  the  psychi 
cal  sense  which  impresses  her  most 
deeply  in  all  natural  and  human  phe 
nomena.  Phcebe  has  little  of  this  ex 
quisite  pantheism.  It  is  not  the  soul 
in  nature  which  she  instinctively  feels 
first  ;  it  is  its  association  with  human 
experiences.  The  field,  the  wood,  the 
old  garden,  the  swallows  under  the 
eaves,  the  cherry-tree  on  the  roof  — 
she  never  wearies  of  going  back  to 
them  ;  all  are  precious  to  her  for  their 
personal  remembrances.  It  is  while 
she  broods  over  the  past,  while  the 
tenderest  memories  of  her  life  come 
thronging  back  into  her  heart,  that  the 
muse  of  Phcebe  Gary  rises  to  its  finest 
and  sweetest  strains.  With  a  less  sub 
tle  fancy  than  Alice,  a  less  suffusive  and 
delicate  imagination  in  embodying  hu 
man  passion,  she  has  a  dramatic  force 
often,  which  her  sister  seldom  mani 
fests.  The  lyric  rush  in  Alice  comes 
with  the  winds  and  waves  ;  it  sings 
of  nature's  moods,  interprets  nature's 
voices  ;  in  her  utterance  of  human  ex 
perience  it  is  the  tender,  the  plaintive, 
the  pathetic,  which  prevail.  The  dra 
matic  instinct  in  Phcebe  kindles  in  de 
picting  human  passion,  and  rises  with 
exultant  lyrical  ring  as  if  it  were  so 
strong  within  her  that  it  would  be  ut 
tered.  Thus  some  of  her  ballads  are 
powerful  in  conception,  and  wonder 
fully  dramatic  in  expression.  The  fin 
est  example  of  this  we  have  in  her 
"  Prairie  Lamp,"  a  poem  full  of  tragic 
energy.  What  a  rhythmic  swell  we 
feel  through  these  lines  :  — 

"  '  And  hark  !  there  is  something  strange 

about, 

For  my  dull  old  blood  is  stirred  ; 
That  was  n't  the  feet  of  the  storm  with 
out, 
I^Jor  the  voice  of  the  storm  I  heard  ! 

"  '  'T  is  my  boy  !  he  is  coming  home,  he 

is  near, 

Or  I  could  not  hear  him  pass  ; 
For  his  step  is  as  light  as  the  step  of 

the  deer 
On  the  velvet  prairie  grass.' 

"She  rose  —  she  stood  erect,  serene.; 
I       She  swiftly  crossed  the  floor, 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  the  hand  of  the  wind,  or  a  hand 

unseen, 
Threw  open  wide  the  door. 

"  Through  the  portal  rushed  the  cruel 

blast, 

With  a  wail  on  its  awful  swell ; 
As  she  cried,  '  My  boy,  you  have  come 

at  last,' 
And  prone  o'er  the  threshold  fell. 

"And    the    stranger   heard   no    other 
sound, 

And  saw  no  form  appear  ; 
But  whoever  came  at  midnight  found 

Her  lamp  was  burning  clear  !  " 

"  The  Lady  Jaqueline,"  one  of  the 
very  finest  of  her  ballads,  expresses  a 
quality  characteristic  of  herself.  It  is 
full  of  personal  fire,  and  yet  in  utter 
ance  it  has  the  quaintness  and  sonorous 
ness  of  an  old  ballad  master. 

"False  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet, 

I  care  not  for  the  rest, 
The  lover  that  knelt  last  night  at  my 

feet 

Was  the  bravest  and  the  best  ; 
Let  them  perish  all,  for  their  power  has 

waned, 

And  their  glory  waxed  dim  ; 
They  were  well  enough  when  they  lived 

and  reigned, 

But  never  was  one  like  him  ! 
And  never  one  from  the  past  would  I 

bring 

Again,  and  call  him  mine  ; 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King ! 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline." 

Nothing  could  be  more  dramatic  than 
this  gradation  from  exultation  in  the 
new,  to  a  yet  tender  remembrance  of 
the  old. 

"And  yet  it  almost  makes  me  weep, 

Aye  !  weep,  and  cry,  alas  ! 
When  I  think  of  one  who  lies  asleep 

Down  under  the  quiet  grass. 
For   he   loved   me   well,  and    I    loved 

again, 

And  low  in  homage  bent, 
And  prayed  for  his  long  and  prosper 
ous  reign, 

In  our  realm  of  sweet  content. 
But   not   to   the  dead   may  the  living 
cling, 


Nor  kneel  at  an  empty  shrine  ; 
he  King  is  dead,  long  live 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 


The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  ! 
the 


"  Yea,  all  my  lovers  and  kings  that  were 

Are  dead,  and  hid  away 
In  the  past,  as  in  a  sepulchre, 

Shut  up  till  the  judgment  day. 
False  or  fickle,  or  weak  or  wed, 

They  are  all  alike  to  me  ; 
And  mine  eyes  no  more  can  be  misled, 

They  have  looked  on  royalty  ! 
Then    bring    me    wine,    and    garlands 
bring 

For  my  king  of  the  right  divine  ; 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  ! 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline." 

Equally  powerful  is  she  in  the  ex 
pression  of  personal  experience.  Her 
friend  Dr.  Deems  said  that  it  always 
took  his  breath  away  to  read  her. 

DEAD    LOVE. 

We  are  face  to  face,  and  between  us 

here 
Is  the  love  we  thought  could  never 

die  ; 
Why  has  it  only  lived  a  year  ? 

Who  has  murdered  it  —  you  or  I  ? 

No  matter  who  —  the  deed  was  done 
By  one  or  both,  and  there  it  lies  ; 

The  smile  from  the  lip  forever  gone, 
And  darkness  over  the  beautiful  eyes. 

Our   love    is    dead,    and   our   hope    is 

wrecked  ; 

So  what  does  it  profit  to  talk  and  rave, 
Whether  it  perished  by  my  neglect, 
Or    whether    your    cruelty   dug   its 
grave  ! 

Why  should  you  say  that  I  am  to  blame, 
Or  why  should  I  charge  the  sin  on 

you  ? 

Our  work  is  before  us  all  the  same, 
And  the  guilt  of  it  lies  between   us 
two. 

We  have  praised  our  love  for  its  beauty 

and  grace  ; 

Now  we  stand  here,  and  hardly  dare 
To  turn  the  face-cloth  back  from  the 

face, 

And    see    the    thing   that  is  hidden 
there. 


LOVE  AND  SPIRITUAL  POEMS. 


Yet  look  !    ah,  that  heart  has  beat  its 

last, 
And  the  beautiful  life  of  our  life  is 

o'er, 
And  when  we  have  buried  and  left  the    | 

past, 
We  two,  together,  can  walk  no  more. 

You  might  stretch  yourself  on  the  dead 

and  weep, 
And  pray  as  the  prophet  prayed,  in 

pain  ; 
But  not  like  him  could  you  break  the 

sleep, 
And  bring  the  soul  to  the  clay  again. 

Its  head  in  my  bosom  I  can  lay, 

And  shower  my  woe  there,  kiss  on 

kiss, 

But  there  never  was  resurrection-day 
In  the  world  for  a  love  so  dead  as 
this  ! 

And,  since  we  cannot  lessen  the  sin 

By  mourning  over  the  deed  we  did, 
Let  us  draw  the  winding-sheet   up  to 

the  chin, 

Aye,  up  till  the  death-blind  eyes  are 
hid  ! 

No  American  poet  has  ever   shown 
more  passion,  pathos,  and  tenderness   j 
combined,  than    we  find   embodied    in   | 
many   of    the    minor    love    poems    of 
Phoebe    Gary.     Not    only   the    "  Dead 
Love,"  but  the  little  poem  which  fol 
lows,  is  an  example  of  these  qualities. 

ALAS  ! 

Since,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day, 

Only  our  hands  could  meet, 
What  matter  if  half  the  weary  world 

Lies  out  between  our  feet  ? 

That  I  am  here  by  the  lonesome  sea, 

You  by  the  pleasant  Rhine  ? 
Our  hearts  were  just  as  far  apart, 

If  I  held  your  hand  in  mine  ! 

Therefore,    with    never    a    backward 
glance, 

I  leave  the  past  behind  ; 
And  standing  here  by  the  sea  alone, 

I  give  it  to  the  wind. 

I  give  it  all  to  the  cruel  wind, 
And  I  have  no  word  to  say  ; 
5 


Yet,  alas  !  to  be  as  we  have  been, 
And  to  be  as  we  are  to  day  ! 

The  literal  quality  of  Phoebe's  mind 
showed  itself  in  her  undoubting  faith 
in  spiritual  communion,  as  it  did  in 
everything  else.  She  would  remark, 
"  I  think  —  —  just  came  into  the  room  ; 
I  feel  her  presence  as  distinctly  as  I 
do  yours,"  speaking  of  one  who  long 
before  had  passed  into  spirit  life.  She 
"knew  that  the  dead  came  back,"  she 
said  "  just  as  she  knew  that  she 
thought,  or  saw,  or  knew  anything 
else."  It  was  simply  a  fact  which  she 
stated  literally  and  unexcitedly  as  she 
would  any  other.  "  It  was  not  any 
more  wonderful  to  her,"  she  said, 
"  that  she  could  see  and  perceive  with 
her  soul,  than  that  she  was  able  to  dis 
cern  objects  through  her  eyeballs." 
Never  were  any  words  which  she  ut 
tered  more  literally  true  to  her  than 
these  :  — 

"  The  veil  of  flesh  that  hid 

Is  softly  drawn  aside  ; 
More  clearly  I  behold  them  now, 

Than  those  who  never  died" 

Nor  must  this  simple  faith  of  these 
sisters  in  communion  with  spirits  be, 
confounded  with  any  mere  modern 
delusion.  They  inherited  this  belief 
from  their  parents.  There  had  been 
no  moment  in  their  conscious  exist 
ence,  when  they  did  not  believe  in  this 
New  Testament  faith,  that  the  dead 
are  ministering  spirits  sent  forth  of 
God,  to  the  heirs  of  salvation.  Never 
did  woman  live  possessed  of  a  more 
sturdy  common  sense  than  Phcebe 
Gary.  Nevertheless  she  spoke  con 
stantly  of  sympathy  and  communion 
with  those  whom  death  had  taken,  pre 
cisely  as  she  spoke  of  intercourse  with 
the  living.  To  her,  life  held  no  verity 
more  blessed  than  that  which  finds  ex 
pression  in  her 

BORDER-LAND. 

I  know  you  are  always  by  my  side, 
And  I  know  you  love  me,  Winifred, 

clear  ; 
For   I   never  called  on  you  since  you 

died, 

But   you   answered    tenderly,    I    am 
here  ! 


66 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   PHCEBE    GARY. 


So  come  from  the  misty  shadows,  where 
You  came  last  night  and    the  night 

before ; 

Put  back  the  veil  of  your  golden  hair, 
And  let  me  look  in  your  face  once 
more. 

Ah  !  it  is  you  ;  with  that  brow  of  truth, 

Ever  too  pure  for  the  least  disguise  ; 

With  the  same  dear  smile  on  the  loving 

mouth, 

And  the  same  sweet  light  in  the  ten 
der  eyes. 

You  are  my  own,  my  darling  still  ; 

So  do  not  vanish  or  turn  aside  ; 
Wait  till  my  eyes  have  had  their  fill, 

Wait  till  my  heart  is  pacified  ! 

You  have  left  the  light  of  your  higher 

place  ; 
And  ever  thoughtful,  and  kind,  and 

good, 

You  come  with  your  old  familiar  face, 
And  not  with  the  look  of  your  angel 
hood. 

Still  the  touch  of  your  hand  is  soft  and 

light, 
And  your  voice  is  gentle,  and  kind, 

and  low  ; 

And  the  very  roses  you  wear  to-night 
You    wore    in    the    summers     long 
ago. 

O  World  !  you  may  tell  me  I  dream  or 

rave, 
So   long    as    my  darling    comes    to 

prove 
That  the  feet  of  the  spirit   cross   the 

grave, 

And   the  loving  live,  and  the   living 
love  ! 

Perhaps  the  utterances  of  her  soul 
which  have  most  deeply  impressed 
others,  and  by  which  she  will  be  longest 
remembered,  are  her  religious  poems. 
They  are  arrfong  the  rarest  in  the  Eng 
lish  tongue,  as  felicitous  in  utterance 
as  they  are  devout  and  helpful  in  spirit. 
It  is  the  soul  of  their  melody,  more 
than  the  melody  itself,  which  makes  us 
glad.  It  is  the  faith  in  the  good,  vis 
ible  and  invisible  ;  the  lark-like  hope 
that  soars  and  sings  so  high  with  such 
spontaneity  of  delight  ;  the  love  brood 
ing  over  the  lowliest  things,  yet  yearn 


ing  out  toward  God's  eternities,  rest 
ing  in  his  love  at  last,  which  make  the 
inspiration  of  all  these  hymns. 

Hers  was  a  loving  and  a  believing 
soul.  Day  by  day  she  walked  with 
God.  In  no  hour  was  He  far  from  her. 
As  natural  as  to  breathe  was  it  for  her 
to  lift  her  heart  to  the  heart  of  all-em 
bracing  Love,  whether  she  sat  in  her 
chamber  alone,  or  went  forth  to  meet 
Him  in  the  outer  world.  From  her 
hymns  we  take  in  the  tonic  of  a  healthy, 
hearty,  happy  soul.  Like  the  simples 
which  we  draw  forth  from  nature's  soil, 
they  are  full  of  savor  and  healing. 
How  we  feel  these  in  her 

FIELD   PREACHING. 

I    have   been   out  to-day  in  field  and 

wood, 
Listening  to  praises  sweet,  and  counsel 

good, 
Such  as  a  little  child  had  understood, 

That,  in  its  tender  youth, 
Discerns     the     simple    eloquence     of 

truth. 

The  modest  blossoms,  crowding  round 

my  way, 
Though    they   had    nothing    great   or 

grand  to  say, 
Gave  out  their  fragrance  to  the  wind 

all  day  ; 

Because  his  loving  breath, 
With  soft  persistence,  won  them  back 

from  death. 

The   stately   maize,  a  fair  and  goodly 
sight, 

With    serried     spear-points     bristling 
sharp  and  bright, 

Shook  out  his  yellow  tresses,  for  de 
light, 
To  all  their  tawny  length, 

Like   Samson,  glorifying   in  his   lusty 
strength. 

And  every  little  bird  upon  the  tree, 

Ruffling   his    plumage    bright,    for   ec 
stasy, 

Sang  in  the  wild  insanity  of  glee  ; 
And  seemed,  in  the  same  lays, 

Calling  his  mate,  and  uttering  songs  of 
praise. 

The  golden  grasshopper  did  chirp  and 
sing; 


NEARER  HOME." 


67 


The  plain  bee,  busy  with  her  house 
keeping, 

Kept    humming    cheerfully   upon    the 

wing, 
As  if  she  understood 

That,  with    contentment,  labor  was    a 
good. 

I  saw  each  creature,  in  his  own  best 

place, 

To  the  Creator  lift  a  smiling  face, 
Praising     continually     his     wondrous 

grace  ; 

As  if  the  best  of  all 
Life's  countless  blessings  was  to  live 

at  all  ! 

So,  with  a  book  of  sermons,  plain  and 
true, 

Hid  in  my  heart,  where  I  might  turn 
them  through, 

I  went  home  softly,  through  the  fall 
ing  dew, 
Still  listening,  rapt  and  calm, 

To    Nature    giving    out    her    evening 
psalm. 

While,  far  along  the  west,  mine  eyes 
discerned, 

Where,  lit  by  God,  the  fires  of  sunset 
burned, 

The   tree-tops,   unconsumed,  to   flame 

were  turned  ; 
And  I,  in  that  great  hush, 

Talked  with  his  angels  in  each  burn 
ing  bush  ! 

The  hymn  of  Phoebe  Gary,  by  which 
she  is  most  widely  known  is  her 


NEARER  HOME. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before  ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 

Where  the  many  mansions  be  ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea  ; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 


But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm  : 

Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink  ; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think  ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust  ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith  ! 

Yet  like  Alice  with  her  "  Pictures  of 
Memory,"  she  did  not  set  a  high  intel 
lectual  value  upon  it.  Until  within  a 
year  or  two  of  her  death  she  was  not 
conscious  of  its  universal  popularity. 
Before  that  time  this  lovely  pilgrim  of 
a  hymn  had  wandered  over  the  world, 
pausing  at  many  thresholds,,  filling 
with  "  sweetly  solemn  thoughts  "  how 
many  Christian  hearts  !  It  had  been 
printed  on  Sabbath-school  cards,  em 
bodied  in  books  of  sacred  song,  pasted 
into  scrap-books,  read  with  tearful 
eyes  by  patient  invalids  in  twilight 
sick  chambers,  and  by  brave  yet  tender 
souls  at  their  hey-dey,  on  whose  wist 
ful  eyes  faint  visions  of  their  immortal 
home  must  sometimes  dawn,  even 
amid  the  dimness  of  this  clouded 
world. 

Within  the  last  year  of  her  life, 
Phoebe  heard  of  an  incident  connected 
with  this  hymn,  which  made  her  hap 
pier  while  she  lived. 

"  A  gentleman  in  China,  intrusted 
with  packages  for  a  young  man  from 
his  friends  in  the  United  States, 
learned  that  he  would  probably  be 
found  in  a  certain  gambling-house. 
He  went  thither,  but  not  seeing  the 
young  man,  sat  down  and  waited,  in 
the  hope  that  he  might  come  in.  The 
place  was  a  bedlam  of  noises,  men 
getting  angry  over  their  cards,  and  fre 
quently  coming  to  blows.  Near  him 
sat  two  men  —  one  young,  the  other 
forty  years  of  age.  They  were  betting 


68 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND   PUCE  BE   CARY. 


and  drinking  in  a  terrible  way,  the 
older  one  giving  utterance  continually 
to  the  foulest  profanity.  Two  games 
had  been  finished,  the  young  man  los 
ing  each  time.  The  third  game,  with 
fresh  bottles  of  brandy,  had  just  be 
gun,  and  the  young  man  sat  lazily 
back  in  his  chair  while  the  oldest  shuf 
fled  his  cards.  The  man  was  a  long 
time  dealing  the  cards,  and  the  young 
man,  looking  carelessly  about  the  room, 
began  to  hum  a  tune.  He  went  on, 
till  at  length  he  began  to  sing  the 
hymn  of  Phcebe  Gary,  above  quoted. 
The  words,"  says  the  writer  of  the 
story,  "  repeated  in  such  a  vile  place, 
at  first  made  me  shudder.  A  Sabbath- 
school  hymn  in  a  gambling  den  !  But 
while  the  young  man  sang,  the  elder 
stopped  dealing  the  cards,  stared  at 
the  singer  a  moment,  and,  throwing 
the  cards  on  the  floor,  exclaimed,  — 

"  '  Harry,  where  did  you  learn  that 
tune  ? ' 

"  '  What  tune  ? ' 

"  '  Why,  that  one  you  've  been  sing 
ing.' 

"The  young  man  said  he  did  not 
know  what  he  had  been  singing,  when 
the  elder  repeated  the  words,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  the  young  man 
said  he  had  learned  them  in  a  Sunday- 
school  in  America. 

" '  Come,'  said  the  elder,  getting  up  ; 
'come  Harry  ;  here  's  what  I  won  from 
you  ;  go  and  use  it  for  some  good  pur 
pose.  As  for  me,  as  God  sees  me,  I 
have  played  my  last  game,  and  drank 
my  last  bottle.  I  have  misled  you, 
Harry,  and  I  am  sorry.  Give  me  your 
hand,  my  boy,  and  say  that,  for  old 
America's  sake,  if  for  no  other,  you 
will  quit  this  infernal  business.'" 

The  gentleman  who  tells  the  story 
(originally  published  in  "  The  Boston 
Daily  News ")  saw  these  two  men 
leave  the  gambling-house  together,  and 
walk  away  arm  in  arm  ;  and  he  re 
marks,  "It  must  be  a  source  of  great 
joy  to  Miss  Gary  to  know  that  her 
lines,  which  have  comforted  so  many 
Christian  hearts,  have  been  the  means 
of  awakening  in  the  breast  of  two 
tempted  and  erring  men  on  the  other 
side  of  the  globe,  a  resolution  to  lead 
a  better  life." 

It  was  a  "great  joy  "  to  the  writer. 


In  a  private  letter  to  an  aged  friend  in 
New  York,  with  the  story  inclosed,  she 
added  :  — 

"  I  inclose  the  hymn  and  the  story 
for  you,  not  because  I  am  vain  of  the 
notice,  but  because  I  thought  you 
would  feel  a  peculiar  interest  in  them 
when  you  know  the  hymn  was  written 
eighteen  ye-ars  ago  (1852)  in  your 
house.  I  composed  it  in  the  little 
back  third  story  bedroom,  one  Sunday 
morning,  after  coming  from  church  ; 
and  it  makes  me  very  happy  to  think 
that  any  word  I  could  say  has  done  a 
little  good  in  the  world." 

After  the  death  of  Phoebe,  the  fol 
lowing  letter  was  received  at  the  "  New 
York  Tribune  "  office. 

SEQUEL   TO   THE    GAMBLERS'    STORY. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Tribune. 

SIR  :  Having  noticed  in  the  col 
umns  of  the  "  Tribune  "  a  biographi 
cal  sketch  of  Phcebe  Gary,  which  con 
tained  an  incident  from  my  letters  from 
China,  I  think  that  the  sequel  to  the 
story  of  the  "  Gamblers"  may  interest 
her  many  friends. 

The  old  man  spoken  of  in  the  anec 
dote  has  returned  to  California,  and 
has  become  a  hard-working  Christian 
man,  while  "Harry"  has  renounced 
gambling  and  all  its  attendant  vices. 
The  incident  having  gone  the  rounds 
of  the  press,  the  old  man  saw  it,  and 
finding  its  "  credit,"  wrote  to  me  about 
it.  Thus  Phoebe  Gary's  poem,  "  One 
Sweetly  Solemn  Thought,"  etc.,  has 
saved  from  ruin  at  least  two  who  sel 
dom  or  never  entered  a  house  of  wor 
ship.  I  am  yours, 

RUSSELL  H.  CONWELL. 
Traveller  Office,  Boston,  Aug.  9,  1871. 

In  her  latest  hymns,  although  they 
express  all  the  old  love,  all  the  old  full 
ness  of  faith,  we  feel  through  them  a 
vibration  of  grief,  like  one  tone  in  a 
happy  voice  quivering  with  tears. 
Thus  she  cries  in  her  very  last  hymn, 
"  Resurgam  :  " 

"  O  mine  eyes,  be  not  so  tearful  ; 
Drooping  spirit,  rise,  be  cheerful ; 
Heavy  soul,  why  art  thou  fearful  ? 


HYMNS  OF  FAITH. 


69 


"  Nature's  sepulchre  is  breaking, 
And  the  earth,  her  gloom  forsaking, 
Into  life  and  light  is  waking. 

"  Oh,  the  weakness  and  the  madness 
Of  a  heart  that  holdeth  sadness 
When  all  else  is  light  and  gladness  ! 

"  Though  thy  treasure  death  hath  taken, 
They  that  sleep  are  not  forsaken, 
They  shall  hear  the  trump,  and  waken. 

"  Shall  not  He  who  life  supplieth 
To  the  dead  seed,  where  it  lieth, 
Quicken  also  man,  who  dieth  ? 

"  Yea,  the  power  of  death  was  ended 
When  He,  who  to  hell  descended, 
Rose,  and  up  to  heaven  ascended. 

"  Rise,  my  soul,  then,  from  dejection, 

See  in  nature  the  reflection 

Of  the  dear  Lord's  resurrection. 

"  Let  this  promise  leave  thee  never  : 
If  the  might  of  death  I  sever, 
Ye  shall  also  live  forever  /  " 

In  "  Dreams  and  Realities,"  a  poem 
published  in  "Harper's  Bazar"  after 
Phoebe's  death,  she  exclaims  :  — 

"  If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 
The  friends  I  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 
Could  1  have  learned  that  clear  calm 

faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bounds  of  death, 

And  almost  longs  to  pass  ?  " 

Thus,  through  the  heavy  cloud  of 
human  loss  and  longing  the  lark-like 
song  arose  into  the  very  precinct  of 
celestial  light,  sweet  with  unfaltering 
faith  and  undying  love  to  the  very  last. 
The  timid  soul  that  fainted  in  its  mor 
tal  house  grew  reassured  and  calm, 
rising  to  the  realization  of  eternal  veri 
ties.  The  world  is  better  because  this 
woman  lived,  and  loved,  and  believed. 
She  wrote,  not  to  blazon  her  own  being 
upon  the  world,  not  to  drop  upon  the 
weary  multitude  the  weight  of  an  op 
pressive  personality.  She  drew  from 
the  deep  wells  of  an  unconscious  and 
overflowing  love  the  bright  waters  of 
refreshment  and  health.  Her  subtler 
insight,  her  finer  intuition,  her  larger 


trust,  her  more  buoyant  hope,  are  the 
world's  helpers,  all.  The  simplest 
word  of  such  a  soul  thrills  with  an  in 
expressible  life.  It  helps  to  make  us 
braver,  stronger,  more  patient,  and 
more  glad.  We  fulfill  the  lowest  task 
more  perfectly,  are  more  loyal  to  our 
duty,  more  loving  to  each  other  and  to 
God,  in  the  turmoil  of  the  world,  in 
the  wearing  care  of  the  house,  in  sor 
row  as  well  as  in  joy,  if  by  a  single 
word  we  are  drawn  nearer  to  the  all- 
encircling  and  everlasting  Love.  To 
do  this,  as  a  writer,  was  the  mission  of 
Phoebe  Gary.  Perhaps  no  lines  which 
she  has  written  express  more  charac 
teristically  or  perfectly  her  devout  and 
childlike  faith  in  a  loving  Father's  or 
dering  ,of  her  earthly  life,  than  the 
poem  which  closes  her  "Poems  of 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love." 

RECONCILED. 

O  years,  gone  down  into  the  past ; 

What  pleasant    memories    come    to 

me, 
Of  your  untroubled  days  of  peace, 

And  hours  almost  of  ecstasy  ! 

Yet  would  I  have  no  moon  stand  still, 
Where    life's  most   pleasant    valleys 

lie; 
Nor  wheel  the  planet  of  the  day 

Back   on    his    pathway  through    the 
sky. 

For  though,   when  youthful   pleasures 

died, 
My   youth    itself   went   with    them, 

too  ; 

To-day,  aye  !  even  this  very  hour, 
Is  the  best  time  I  ever  knew. 


Not  that  my  Father  gives  to  me 

More   blessings   than    in   days  gone 
by; 

Dropping  in  my  uplifted  hands 
All  things  for  which  I  blindly  cry  : 


But  that  his  plans  and  purposes 

Have  grown  to  me  less  strange  and 
dim  ; 

And  where  I  cannot  understand, 
I  trust  the  issues  unto  Him. 

And,  spite  of  many  broken  dreams, 
This  have  I  truly  learned  to  say,  — 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


The    prayers    I    thought    unanswered 

once, 

Were  answered  in  God's  own  best 
way. 

And    though    some    dearly  cherished 
hopes 

Perished  untimely  ere  their  birth, 
Yet  have  I  been  beloved  and  blessed 

Beyond  the  measure  of  my  worth. 

And  sometimes  in  my  hours  of  grief, 
For  moments  I  have  come  to  stand 

Where,  in  the  sorrows  on  me  laid 
I  felt  a  loving  Father's  hand. 

And  I  have  learned  the  weakest  ones 
Are  kept  securest  from  life's  harms  ; 

And  that  the  tender  lambs  alone 
Are  carried  in  the  Shepherd's  arms. 

And  sitting  by  the  wayside  blind, 
He  is  the  nearest  to  the  light, 

Who  crieth  out  most  earnestly, 

"  Lord,    that    I    might    receive    my 
sight  !  " 

O  feet,  grown  weary  as  ye  walk, 

Where  down  life's  hill  my  pathway 
lies, 

What  care  I,  while  my  soul  can  mount, 
As  the  young  eagle  mounts  the  skies! 

O  eyes,  with  weeping  faded  out, 
What  matters  it  how  dim  ye  be  ? 

My  inner  vision  sweeps,  untired, 
The  reaches  of  eternity  ! 

O  death,  most  dreaded  power  of  all. 
When  the  last   moment  comes,  and 

thou 

Darkenest  the  windows  of  my  soul. 
Through    which    I    look    on    nature 
now  ; 

Yea,  when  mortality  dissolves, 

Shall  1  not  meet  thine  hour  unawed  ? 

My  house  eternal  in  the  heavens 
Is  lighted  by  the  smile  of  God  ! 


CHAPTER   X. 
PHCEBE   GARY.  —  THE    WOMAN. 

THE  wittiest  woman  in   America  is 
dead.     There  are  others  who  say  many 


brilliant  things  ;  but  I  doubt  if  there  is 
another  so  spontaneously  and  pointedly 
witty,  in  the  sense  that  Sidney  Smith 
was  witty,  as  Phoebe  Gary.  The  draw 
back  to  almost  everybody's  wit  and  rep 
artee  is  that  it  so  often  seems  pre 
meditated.  It  is  a  fearful  chill  to  a 
laugh  to  know  that  it  is  being  watched 
for,  and  had  been  prepared  beforehand. 
But  there  was  an  absolute  charm  in 
Phoebe's  wit  ;  it  was  spontaneous,  so 
coruscating,  so  "  pat."  Then  it  was 
full  of  the  delight  of  a  perpetual  sur 
prise.  She  was  just  as  witty  at  break 
fast  as  she  was  at  dinner,  and  would 
say  something  just  as  astonishingly 
bright  to  one  companion,  and  she  a 
woman,  as  to  a  roomful  of  cultivated 
men,  doing  their  best  to  parry  her  flash 
ings  cimitars  of  speech.  Though  so  lib 
erally  endowed  with  the  poetic  utterance 
and  i'nsight,  she  first  beheld  every  object 
literally,  not  a  ray  of  glamour  about  it; 
she  saw  its  practical  and  ludicrous  re 
lations  first,  and  from  this  absolutely 
matter-of-fact  perception  came  the 
sparkling  utterance  which  saw  it, 
caught  it,  played  with  it,  and  held  it 
up  in  the  same  instant.  It  is  pleasant 
to  think  of  a  friend  who  made  you 
laugh  so  many  happy  times,  bat  who 
never  made  you  weep. 

For  instantaneously  as  her  arrow  of 
wit  came,  it  sprung  from  too  kind  a 
heart  ever  to  be  tipped  with  a  sting. 
There  was  always  a  prevailing  vein  of 
good  nature  in  'her  most  satirical  or 
caustic  remarks.  Indeed,  satire  and 
sarcasm  rarely  sought  vent  in  her  glit 
tering  speech  ;  it  was  fun,  sheer  fun, 
usually,  as  kindly  innocent  in  spirit  as 
it  was  ludicrous  and  brilliant  in  utter 
ance.  But  a  flash  of  wit,  like  a  flash  of 
lightning,  can  only  be  remembered,  it 
cannot  be  reproduced.  Its  very  marvel 
lies  in  its  spontaneity  and  evanescence  ; 
its  power  is  in  being  struck  from 
the  present.  Divorced  from  that,  the 
keenest  representation  of  it  seems  cold 
and  dead.  We  read  over  the  few  re 
maining  sentences  which  attempt  to 
embody  the  repartees  and  bon  uiols  of 
the  most  famous  wits  of  society,  such 
as  Beau  Nash,  Beau  Brummel,  Madame 
DuDeffand,  and  Lady  Mary  Montagu  ; 
we  wonder  at  the  poverty  of  these  me 
morials  of  their  fame.  Thus  it  must 
be  with  Phoebe  Gary.  Her  most  brill- 


PHCEBE   GARY'S   WIT. 


iant  sallies  were  perfectly  unpremedi 
tated,  and  by  herself  never  repeated,  or 
remembered.  When  she  was  in  her 
best  moods,  they  came  like  flashes  of 
heat  lightning,  like  a  rush  of  meteors, 
so  suddenly  and  constantly  you  were 
dazzled  while  you  were  delighted,  and 
afterward  found  it  difficult  to  single  out 
any  distinct  flash,  or  separate  meteor 
from  the  multitude.  A  niece  of  Phoebe 
says  that  when  a  school-girl  she  often 
thought  of  writing  down  in  a  book  the 
marvelous  things  which  she  heard  her 
Aunt  Phoebe  say  every  day.  Had  she 
carried  out  her  resolution,  her  book 
would  now  be  the  largest  volume  of 
Phoebe  Gary's  thoughts.  As  it  is,  this 
most  wonderful  of  all  her  gifts  can  only 
be  represented  by  a  few  stray  sen 
tences,  gleaned  here  and  there  from  the 
faithful  memories  of  loving  friends  ; 
each  one  invariably  adding,  "  Oh,  if  I 
had  only  taken  clown  the  many  won 
derfully  bright  things  that  I  heard  her 
say."  She  had  a" necklace  made  of 
different  articles  which  her  friends  had 
given  her  ;  from  one  there  was  a  mar 
ble,  from  another  a  curious  nut  from 
the  East,  from  another  a  piece  of  am 
ber,  from  another  a  ball  of  malachite  or 
crystal,  and  so  on,  till  the  necklace 
consisted  of  more  than  fifty  beads,  and, 
when  open,  stretched  to  a  length  of 
nearly  four  feet. 

She  often  wore  this  necklace  on  Sun 
day  evenings,  and  while  in  conversa 
tion  would  frequently  occupy  her  fin 
gers  in  toying  with  the  beads.  "  One 
evening  a  friend  told  her  that  she 
looked,  with  her  necklace,  like  an  In 
dian  princess  ;  she  replied  that  the 
only  difference  was  that  the  Indian 
had  a  string  of  scalps  in  place  of 
beads.  She  said  that  she  thought 
that  the  best  place  for  her  friends  was 
to  hang  about  her  neck,  and  with  this 
belief  she  had  constructed  the  neck 
lace,  and  compelled  her  friends  to  join 
it.  Some  of  her  friends  used  to  tell 
her  that  she  ought  to  have  a  short 
hand  reporter  as  a  familiar  spirit,  to 
jot  down  her  sharp  sayings,  and  give 
them  out  to  the  world.  But  she  re 
plied  that  it  would  not  be  to  her  taste 
to  be  short-handed  down  to  fame  ;  she 
preferred  the  lady  with  the  trump, 
though  she  thought  the  aforesaid  lady 
would  be  more  attractive,  and  give  a 


better  name  to  her  favorites,  if  she 
dressed  in  the  costume  of  the  period." 

A  friend  tells  how,  at  a  little  party, 
where  fun  rose  to  a  great  height,  one 
quiet  person  was  suddenly  attacked  by 
a  gay  lady  with  the  question,  "Why 
don't  you  laugh  ?  You  sit  there  just 
like  a  post !  " 

"  There  !  she  called  you  a  post  ;  why 
don't  you  rail  at  her  ?  "  was  Phoebe's 
instantaneous  exclamation. 

Another  tells  how,  at  a  dinner-table 
where  wine  flowed  freely,  some  one 
asked  the  sisters  what  wines  they 
kept. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Phoebe,  "  we  drink  Heid- 
sick  ;  but  we  keep  mum." 

Mr.  P.  T.  Barnum  mentioned  to  her 
that  the  skeleton  man  and  the  fat 
woman,  then  on  exhibition  in  the  city, 
were  married. 

"  I  suppose  they  loved  through  thick 
and  thin,"  answered  Phoebe. 

"  On  one  occasion,  when  Phoebe  was 
at  the  Museum,  looking  about  at  the 
curiosities,"  says  Mr.  Barnum,  "  I  pre 
ceded  her,  and  had  passed  down  a 
couple  of  steps.  She,  intently  watch 
ing  a  big  anaconda  in  a  case  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  walked  off  (not  no 
ticing  them),  and  fell.  I  was  just  in 
time  to  catch  her  in  my  arms,  and  save 
her  from  a  severe  bruising. 

"  '  I  am  more  lucky  than  that  first 
woman  was,  who  fell  through  the  in 
fluence  of  the  serpent,'  said  Phoebe,  as 
she  recovered  herself." 

Being  one  day  at  Wood's  Museum, 
she  asked  Mr.  Barnum  to  show  her 
the  "  Infernal  Regions,"  advertised  to 
be  represented  there.  On  inquiring, 
he  found  that  they  were  out  of  order, 
and  said,  — 

"  The  Infernal  Regions  have  van 
ished  ;  but  never  mind,  Phoebe,  you 
will  see  them  in  time." 

"  No,  in  eternity,"  was  the  lightning- 
like  reply. 

On  one  occasion  a  certain  well- 
known  actor,  then  recently  deceased, 
and  more  conspicuous  for  his  profes 
sional  skill  than  for  his  private  virtues, 
was  discussed.  "We  shall  never,"  re 
marked  some  one,  "  see again." 

"  No,"  quickly  responded  Phoebe  ; 
"  not  unless  we  go  to  the  pit." 

Says  Oliver  Johnson  in  his  last  trib 
ute  to  her,  in  the  "  Tribune  :  " 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   CARY. 


"  Her  religious  sentiments  were  deep 
and  strong,  her  faith  in  the  Eternal 
Goodness  unwavering.  Educated  in 
the  faith  of  Universalism,  she  believed 
to  the  last  in  the  final  salvation  of  all 
God's  children.  On  this  subject  she 
spoke  to  the  writer  with  great  distinct 
ness  and  emphasis  only  a  few  weeks 
before  her  death  ;  and  'once  she  indi 
cated  her  faith  by  repeating  with  ap 
probation  the  remark  of  one  who  said, 
in  reply  to  the  argument  in  favor  of 
endless  misery,  'Well,  if  God  ever 
sends  me  into  such  misery,  I  know  He 
will  give  me  a  constitution  to  bear  it.'  " 

On  entering  a  shop  one  day,  she 
asked  the  clerk  to  show  her  a  lady's 
cap.  He  understood  her  to  say  "  a 
baby's  cap." 

"'What  is  the  child's  age?''  he  in 
quired. 

"Forty!"  exclaimed  Phoebe,  in  a 
tone  which  made  the  young  man  jump 
with  amazement. 

Among  her  papers  there  is  an  envel 
ope  that  she  has  left  behind,  on  which, 
in  her  own  hand,  is  written  one  word  : 
"Fun!"  It  is  packed  with  little 
squibs  of  rhyme  and  travesty,  evi 
dently  written  for  her  own  amusement, 
and  thrust  here  out  of  sight,  as  un 
worthy  to  be  seen  by  any  eyes  but  her 
own.  But  they  are  so  characteristic, 
and  so  illustrative  of  the  quality  of  her 
mind  which  we  are  considering,  that  I 
am  tempted  to  give  two  of  them  :  not 
that  either  of  the  two  is  as  funny  as 
those  left  in  the  envelope  ;  but  because 
it  trenches  upon  less  pointedly  absurd 
themes.  One  is, 


MORAL    LESSONS. 

BY    AMOS     KEATER. 

How  doth  the  little  busy  flea 
Improve  each  awful  jump  ; 

And  mark  her  progress  as  she  goes, 
By  many  an  itching  lump  ! 

How  skillfully  she  does  her  "  sell  ;  " 
How  neat  she  bites  our  backs, 

And  labors  hard  to  keep  her  well 
Beyond  the  reach  of  whacks  ! 

I,  too,  in  games  of  chance  and  skill, 
By  Satan  would  be  led  ; 


For  if  you  're  always  sitting  still, 
You  cannot  get  ahead. 

To  lively  back-biting  and  sich, 
My  great  ambition  tends  ; 

Thus  would  I  make  me  fat  and  rich 
By  living  off  my  friends. 

The  other  bears  no  title  :  — 

Go  on,  my  friend,  speak  freely,  pray  ; 
Don't  stop  till  you  have  said  your  say  ; 
But,  after  you  are  tired  to  death, 
And  pause  to  take  a  little  breath, 
I  '11  name  a  dish  I  think  is  one 
To  which  no  justice  can  be  done  ! 

It  is  n't  pastry,  old  and  rich, 

Nor  onions,  garlic,  chives,  and  sich  ; 

Not  cheese  that  moves  with  lively  pace, 

It  is  n't  even  Sweitzer  Kase  : 

It  is  n't  ham,  that 's  old  and  strong, 

Nor  sausage  kept  a  month  too  long  ; 

It  is  n't  beefsteak,  fried  in  lard, 

Nor  boiled  potatoes  when  they're  hard 

(All  food  unfit  for  Goth  or  Celt) ; 

It  is  n't  fit  even  when  they  're  smelt  ; 

It  ain't  what  Chinamen  call  nice, 

Although  they  dote  on  rats  and  mice  ; 

For,  speaking  honestly  and  truly, 

I  would  n't  give  it  to  a  Coolie  ! 

I  would  n't  vally  even  a  pup, 

If  he  could  stoop  to  eat  it  up  ; 

Nor  give  my  enemy  a  bit, 

Although  he  sot  and  cried  for  it. 

Recall  all  pizen  food  and  slop 

At  stations  where  the  rail-cars  stop  ; 

It 's  more  than  each  and  all  of  these, 

By  just  about  sixteen  degrees. 

It  has  no  nutriment,  it 's  trash  ! 

It  's  meaner  than  the  meanest  hash, 

And  sourer  twenty  thousand  times, 

Than  lemons,  vinegar,  and  limes  : 

It 's  what  I  hate  the  man  who  eats  ; 

It 's  poor,  cold,  cussed,  pickled  beets  !  " 

I  pause  in  these  quotations  with  a 
sense  of  pain.  The  written  line  is 
such  a  feeble  reflection  of  the  living 
words  which  flashed  from  the  speaking 
woman,  so  tiny  a  ray  of  that  abounding 
light,  that  bounteous  life,  from  earth 
gone  out ! 

The  same  powerful  sense  of  justice, 
the  same  delicate  honor,  the  sensitive 
conscience,  the  tender  sympathies, 
which  prevailed  in  the  nature  of  Alice, 
were  also  dominant  in  Phoebe. 


LOVE   OF  APPROBATION. 


73 


She  not  only  wanted  every  breathing 
thing  to  have  its  little  mortal  chance, 
but,  so  far  as  she  felt  able  to  assist,  it 
had  it.  She  was  especially  sympa 
thetic  to  the  aged  and  the  young,  yet 
her  heart  went  oat  to  the  helpless,  the 
poor,  the  oppressed  everywhere. 

One  of  her  most  marked  traits  was  a 
fine  sense  of  honor  which  pervaded  her 
minutest  acts.  This  was  manifested  in 
her  personal  relations  with  others,  in 
the  utter  absence  of  all  curiosity.  If 
ever  a  woman  lived  who  absolutely 
"minded  her  own  business,  and  let 
that  of  other  people  alone,"  it  was 
Phoebe  Gary.  If  ever  mortal  lived  who 
thoroughly  respected  the  individual 
life  and  rights  of  others,  it  was  Phoebe 
Gary.  From  the  prevailing  "  little 
nesses  "  which  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli 
says  are  the  curse  of  women,  she  was 
almost  entirely  free. 

Her  conscience  ruled  her  in  the 
words  of  her  mouth,  the  meditations  of 
her  heart,  and  the  minutest  acts  of  her 
life.  To  do  anything  which  she  knew 
to  be  wrong  would  have  been  an  im 
possibility  to  Phoebe  Gary.  This  acute 
and  ever  accusing-conscience,  com 
bined  with  a  lowly  estimate  of  every 
power  of  her  own,  even  her  power  of 
being  good,  filled  her  with  a  deep  and 
pervading  humility.  She  was  not  only 
modest,  she  was  humble  ;  not  in  any 
cringing  or  ignoble  sense,  but  with  an 
abiding  consciousness  that  it  was  not 
possible  for  her  to  attain  to  her  own 
standard  of  excellence  in  anything. 
These  qualities,  together,  produced  a 
blended  timidity  of  nature  and  feeling, 
which  was  manifested  even  in  her  re 
ligious  experience.  Her  apprehension 
of  God  as  the  universal  and  all-loving 
Father  was  deep  and  comprehensive. 
Her  belief  in  Christ  as  an  all-sufficient 
Saviour  was  sure  and  sufficing.  Her 
faith  and  hope  in  them  soared  and 
sang  in  the  sunshine  of  abiding  trust. 
But  the  moment  she  thought  of  her 
self,  she  felt  all  unworthiness.  It  was 
her  last  thought,  uttered  in  her  last 
words,  "  O  God,  have  mercy  on  my 
soul !  " 

As  it  is  to  all  self-distrusting  per 
sons,  personal  approbation  was  dear  to 
her.  The  personal  responses  which 
many  of  her  poems  called  forth  made 
her  genuinely  happy,  and  were  to  her, 


often,  the  most  precious  recompense 
of  her  labor.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  ingenuous  or  modest  than 
the  pleasure  which  she  showed  at  any 
spontaneous  response  from  another 
heart,  called  out  by  some  poem  of  her 
own.  She  did  not  set  a  high  value  on 
herself,  but  if  others  valued  her,  she 
was  glad.  If  she  received  the  assurance 
that  in  any  way  her  words  had  helped 
another  human  being,  she  was  happier 
still.  This  happiness  probably  never 
rose  to  such  fullness  from  the  same 
cause,  as  when  the  incident  of  the  two 
wanderers  in  China,  and  her  hymn, 
"  Nearer  Home,"  first  met  her  eyes  in 
a  newspaper. 

While  she  frankly  said  that  she  was 
happy  in  believing  that  she  came  of 
good  lineage,  no  one  on  earth  was 
more  ready  to  say,  — 

"  A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that," 

whatever  the  shadow  might  be  which 
rested  on  his  birth  or  ancestry.  Of 
sycophancy  and  snobbery  she  was  in 
capable.  She  took  the  most  literal 
measure  of  every  human  being  whom 
she  gauged  at  all,  and  the  valuation 
was  precisely  what  the  individual  made 
it,  without  reference  to  any  antecedent 
whatever.  Shams  collapsed  in  the 
presence  of  this  truthful  soul,  and  pre 
tense  withered  away  under  her  cool, 
measuring  gaze.  Mere  wealth  had  no 
patent  which  could  command  her  re 
spect,  and  poverty  no  sorrow  that  did 
not  possess  her  sympathy  and  pity. 
"  I  have  felt  so  poor  myself,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  have  cried  in  the  street  because  I 
was  poor.  I  am  so  much  nearer  to 
poor  people  than  to  rich  ones." 

The  child  of  such  parents,  Phoebe, 
as  well  as  Alice,  could  scarcely  help 
growing  up  to  be  the  advocate  of  every 
good  word  and  work.  Phoebe's  pen, 
as  well  as  her  life,  was  ever  dedicated 
to  temperance,  to  human  rights,  to 
religion,  to  all  true  progress.  It  was 
impossible  that  such  a  woman  should 
not  have  been  devoted  to  all  the  best 
interests  of  her  own  sex.  She  believed 
religiously  in  the  social,  mental,  and 
civil  enfranchisement  of  woman.  She 
hated  caste  in  sex  as  she  hated  any 
other  caste  rooted  in  injustice,  and  the 
degradation  of  human  nature.  She 
believed  it  to  be  the  human  right  of 


74 


MEMORIAL   OF   ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


every  woman  to  develop  the  power  that 
God'  has  given  her,  and  to  fulfill  her 
destiny  as  a  human  creature,  —  free  as 
man  is  free.  Yet  it  was  in  woman  as 
woman  that  she  believed.  She  herself 
was  one  of  the  most  womanly  of  women. 
What  she  longed  to  see  educated  to  a 
finer  and  fuller  supremacy  in  woman, 
was  feminine,  not  masculine  strength. 
As  she  believed  in  man's,  she  believed 
no  less  in  woman's  kingdom.  Her 
very  clearly  defined  ideas  and  feelings 
on  this  subject  can  in  no  way  be  so 
perfectly  expressed  as  in  her  own 
words,  published  in  the  "  New  York 
Tribune." 


ADVICE    GRATIS    TO    CERTAIN    WOMEN. 

BY    A   WOMAN. 

Oh,  my  strong-minded  sisters,  aspiring 

to  vote, 
And  to  row  with  your  brothers,  all  in 

the  same  boat, 
When  you  come  out  to  speak  to  the 

public  your  mind, 
Leave  your  tricks,  and  your  airs,  and 

your  graces  behind  ! 

For  instance,  when  you  by  the  world 

would  be  seen 
As    reporter,   or   editor    (first-class,    I 

mean), 
I  think  —  just  to  come  to  the  point  in 

one  line  — 
What  you  write  will  be  finer,  if  't  is  not 

too  fine. 

Pray,  don't  let  the  thread  of  your  sub 
ject  be  strung 

With  "golden,"  and  "shimmer," 
"  sweet,"  "  filter,"  and  "  flung  ;  " 

Nor  compel,  by  your  style,  all  your 
readers  to  guess 

You  've  been  looking  up  words  Webster 
marks  obs. 

And  another  thing  :  whatever  else  you 

may  say, 

Do  keep  personalities  out  of  the  way  ; 
Don't    try    every    sentence    to    make 

people  see 
What    a   dear,  charming  creature    the 

writer  must  be  ! 


Leave  out  affectations  and  pretty  ap 
peals  ; 

Don't  "drag  yourself  in  by  the  neck 
and  the  heels," 

Your  dear  little  boots,  and  your  gloves  ; 
and  take  heed, 

Nor  pull  your  curls  over  men's  eyes 
while  they  read. 

Don't  mistake   me  ;     I  mean  that  the 

public  's  not  home, 
You  must  do  as  the  Romans  do,  when 

you  're  in  Rome  ; 
I  would   have  you  be  womanly,  while 

you  are  wise  ; 
'T  is  the  weak  and  the  womanish  tricks 

I  despise. 

On   the  other  hand  :    don't  write  and 

dress  in  such  styles 
As  astonish  the  natives,  and  frighten 

the  isles  ; 
Do  look,  on  the  platform,  so  folks  in 

the  show 
Need  n't  ask,  "  Which  are  lions,  and 

which  tigers  ?  "  you  know  ! 

" 'T  is  2.  good   thing  to  write,  and  to 

rule  in  the  state. 
But   to  be  a  true,  womanly  woman  is 

great : 
And  if  ever  you  come  to  be  that,  't  will 

be  when 
You  can  cease  to  be  babies,  nor  try  to 

be  men  ! 

After  months  of  solicitation  from 
those  connected  with  it,  and  at  the 
earnest  entreaty  of  Alice,  she  became 
at  one  time  the  assistant  editor  of  the 
"  Revolution."  But  the  responsibility 
was  always  distasteful  to  her,  and  after 
a  few  months'  trial,  she  relinquished 
it  with  a  sense  of  utter  relief. 

She,  like  Alice,  was  unfitted  by  nat 
ural  temperament  and  disposition  for 
all  personal  publicity.  But  in  private 
intercourse,  at  home  or  abroad,  her 
convictions  on  all  subjects  were  ear 
nestly  and  fearlessly  expressed. 

Although  so  uncompromising  in  her 
convictions.  Phoebe  very  rarely  aroused 
antagonism  in  her  expression  of  them. 
If  she  uttered  them  at  all,  it  was  in  a 
form  which  commanded  merriment,  if 
not  belief.  The  truth  which  many  an 
other  might  unfold  in  an  hour's  decla- 


WAS  HE  HENPECKED?" 


75 


mation,  she  would  sheathe  in  witty 
rhyme,  in  whose  lines  it  would  run 
and  sparkle  as  it  never  could  have  done 
in  bald  prose. 

In  the  following  lines  we  find  her 
usual  manner  of  expressing  a  truth, 
which  so  many  others  offer  in  a  form 
harsh  and  repelling.  Phoebe,  who  had 
just  written  these  lines,  brought  them 
in,  and  read  them  one  day  to  Alice, 
who  was  too  ill  to  sit  up.  The  turn  of 
her  words,  and  the  tones  of  her  voice, 
combined,  were  irresistible,  and  in  a 
moment  the  beating  rain  outside,  and 
the  weary  pain  within  were  forgotten 
in  merriment.  Thus  the  truth  of  the 
rhyme,  which  from  many  another  nat 
ure  would  have  shot  forth  in  garrulous 
fault-finding  or  expostulation,  in  the 
dress  wherewith  Phoebe  decked  it, 
amused  far  more  than  it  exasperated, 
although  the  keenness  of  its  edge  was 
in  no  wise  dulled  or  obscured. 

WAS   HE   HENPECKED  ? 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  dear," 
Said  Mrs.  Dorking,  proudly, 

"  I  do  not  like  that  chanticleer 
Who  crows  o'er  us  so  loudly. 

"  And  since  I  must  his  laws  obey, 
And  have  him  walk  before  me, 

I  'd  rather  like  to  have  my  say 
Of  who  should  lord  it  o'er  me." 

"  You^d  like  to  vote?"    he   answered 

slow, 

"  Why,  treasure  of  my  treasures, 
What   can   you,  or   what   should   you 

know 
Of  public  men,  or  measures  ? 

"  Of  course,  you  have  ability, 

Of  nothing  am  I  surer  ; 
You  're  quite  as  wise,  perhaps,  as  I  ; 

You  're  better,  too,  and  purer. 

"  I  'd  have  you  just  for  mine  alone  ; 

Nay,  so  do  I  adore  you, 
I  'd  put  you  queen  upon  a  throne, 

And  bow  myself  before  you." 

"  You  'd  put  me  !  you  ?   now   that   is 
what 

I  do  not  want,  precisely  ; 
I  want  myself  to  choose  the  spot 

That  I  can  fill  most  wisely." 


"  My  dear,  you  're  talking  like  a  goose  — 

Unhenly,  and  improper  " 
But  here  again  her  words  broke  loose, 

In  vain  he  tried  to  stop  her  : 

"  I  tell  you,  though  she  never  spoke 
So  you  could  understand  her, 

A   goose    knows    when    she   wears    a 

yoke, 
As  quickly  as  a  gander." 

"  Why,    bless    my   soul  !     what   would 

you  do  ? 

Write  out  a  diagnosis  ? 
Speak    equal   rights  ?    join   with   their 

crew 
And  dine  with  the  Sorosis  ? 

"  And  shall  I  live  to  see  it,  then  — 

My  wife  a  public  teacher  ? 
And  would  you  be  a  crowing  hen  — 

That  dreadful  unsexed  creature  ?  " 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  I  do  not  know  ; 

Nor  see  why  you  should  fear  it ; 
If  I  can  crow,  why  let  me  crow, 

If  I  can't,  then  you  won't  hear  it !  " 

"  Now,  why,"  he  said,  "  can't  such  as 
you 

Accept  what  we  assign  them  ? 
YOLI  have  your  rights,  'tis  very  true, 

But  then,  we  should  define  them  ! 

"  We  would  not  peck  you  cruelly, 
We  would  not  buy  and  sell  you  ; 

And  you,  in   ///;-//,   should  think,  and 

be, 
And  do,  just  what  we  tell  you  ! 

"  I  do  not  want  you  made,  my  dear, 
The  subject  of  rude  men's  jest ; 

I  like  you  in  your  proper  sphere, 
The  circle  of  a  hen's  nest  ! 

"  I  'd  keep  you  in  the  chicken-yard, 
Safe,  honored,  and  respected  ; 

From   all   that   makes    us    rough    and 

hard, 
Your  sex  should  be  protected." 

"  Pray,  did  it  ever  make  you  sick  ? 

Have  I  gone  to  the  dickens  ? 
Because  you  let  me  scratch  and  pick 

Both  for  myself  and  chickens  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that 's  a  different  thing,  you  know, 
Such  duties  are  parental; 


76 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALTCE  AND   PHCEBE   GARY. 


But  for  some  work  to  do,  you  'el  grow 
Quite  weak  and  sentimental." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  it 's  well  for  you  to  talk 

About  a  parent's  duty  ! 
Who    keeps    your   chickens    from   the 

hawk  ? 
'     Who  stays  in  nights,  my  beauty  ?  " 

"  But,  madam,  you  may  go  each  hour, 
Lorel  bless  your  pretty  faces  ! 

We  '11  give  you  anything,  but  power 
And  honor,  trust  anel  places. 

"  We  'd  keep  it  hidden  from  your  sight 
How  public  scenes  are  carried  ; 

Why,  men  are  coarse,  and  swear,  and 

fight "- 
"  I  know  it,  dear ;  I  'm  married  !  " 

"  Why,  now  you  gabble  like  a  fool  ; 

But  what 's  the  use  of  talking  ? 
'T  is  yours  to  serve,  anel  mine  to  rule, 

I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Dorking  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she    said,  "  you  've  all  the 
sense  ; 

Your  sex  are  very  knowing ; 
Yet  some  of  you  are  on  the  fence, 

And  only  good  at  crowing." 

"  Ah  !  preciousest  of  precious  souls, 
Your  words  with  sorrow  fill  me  ; 

To  see  you  voting  at  the  polls 
I  really  think  would  kill  me. 

"  To  mourn  my  home's  lost  sanctity  ; 

To  feel  you  elid  not  love  me  ; 
And  worse,  to  see  you  fly  so  high, 

And  have  you  roost  above  me  !  " 

"  Now,  what  you  fear  in  equal  rights 
I  think  you  've  told  precisely  ; 

That 's  just  about  the  'place  it  lights]  " 
Said  Mrs.  Dorking  wisely. 

Phoebe  was  very  fond  of  children. 
Like  Alice,  she  always  had  her  special 
pets  anel  darlings  among  the  children 
of  her  friends.  She  was  interested  in 
all  childhood,  but,  unlike  Alice,  she 
preferred  little  boys  to  little  girls.  All 
her  child  lyrics  are  exceptionally  happy, 
going  straight  to  the  understanding  and 
hearts  of  little  folk.  She  addresses 
them  ever  as  dear  little  friends,  jolly 
little  comrades,  never  in  a  mother-tone  ; 
while  in  Alice,  we  feel  constantly  the 


yearning  of  the  mother-heart.  Her  ut 
terances  to  children  thrill  through  and 
through  with  mother-love,  its  tender 
ness,  its  exultation.  It  is  often  difficult 
to  realize  that  she  is  not  the  mother  of 
the  child  to  whom  she  speaks  and  of 
whose  loveliness  she  sings. 

Phoebe  had  a  childlike  love  of  decora 
tion.  Not  that  she  was  ever  satisfied 
with  her  looks.  She  had  the  same  dis 
trust  of  her  personal  appearance  that 
she  hael  of  her  personal  powers.  Nev 
ertheless  she  had  a  passionate  love  of 
ornaments. 

Alice  delighted  in  ample  robes,  rich 
fabrics,  India  shawls,  and  wore  very 
few  jewels.  But  Phoebe  would  wear 
two  bracelets  on  one  arm,  from  the 
sheer  delight  of  looking  on  them.  The 
Oriental  warmth  of  her  temperament 
was  revealed  in  her  delight  in  gleaming 
gems.  She  loved  them  for  their  own 
sakes.  There  were  ardors  of  her  heart 
which  seemed  to  find  their  counterpart 
in  the  imprisoned,  yet  inextinguishable 
fires  of  precious  stones.  She  would 
watch  and  muse  over  them,  moment 
after  moment,  as  if  in  a  dream.  Her 
senses,  pure  and  strong,  were  the  ave 
nues  of  keen  and  swift  delights.  If 
her  conscience  was  stern,  her  heart  was 
warm,  and  her  capacity  for  joy  immeas 
urable.  The  flashing  of  a  jewel,  the 
odor  of  a  flower,  the  face  of  youth,  the 
subtle  effluence  of  outraying  beauty,  the 
touch  of  a  hand,  the  moulding  of  a  per 
fect  arm,  everything  which  revealed,  in 
sight  or  sound  or  form,  the  more  subtle 
and  secret  significance  of  matter,  moved 
a  nature  powerful  in  its  passionate  sen 
sibility. 

To  her  dying  hour  she  was  a  chilel 
in  many  ways.  The  Phoebe  Gary  who 
faced  the  world  was  dignified,  self-con 
tained,  and  self-controlled.  But  the 
child-heart  avenged  itself  for  what  the 
worlel  had  cost  it,  when  it  came  back  to 
its  own  sole  self.  The  last  great  strug 
gle,  in  which  alone  it  essayed  to  meet 
anel  conquer  sorrow,  snapped  the  cord 
of  life.  Thus  in  the  slightest  things, 
often,  Phoebe  could  not  bear  disappoint 
ment  any  better  than  a  child.  No  mat 
ter  how  bravely  she  tried,  afterwards, 
in  greater  or  less  degree,  she  always 
went  through  the  reaction  of  complete 
prostration.  Often  a  disappointment 
like  missing  a  train  of  cars,  having  a 


PHCEBE'S  LOVERS. 


77 


journey  put  off,  or  even  a  pleasant  even 
ing  out  deferred,  would  send  her  to  her 
room  in  floods  of  tears.  To  be  sure, 
she  made  no  ado.  The  door  was  shut, 
and  nobody  was  allowed  to  hear  the 
wailing,  nor  were  any  comments  made 
on  it  afterwards.  Nevertheless,  when 
she  appeared  again,  two  or  three,  at 
least,  always  knew  that  "  Phoebe  had 
had  her  cry,  and  felt  better." 

Modest  and  reticent  in  herself,  yet 
merry  and  witty  in  her  conversation 
with  men,  her  habitual  manner  to  the 
women  whom  she  loved  was  most  en 
dearing.  Without  the  shallow  "  gush," 
and  insipid  surface  effervescence  of 
sentimental  adjectives,  which  in  many 
women  take  the  place,  and  attempt  to 
hide  the  lack,  of  any  deep  affection, 
Phoebe  was  full  of  loving  little  ways, 
dear  to  remember.  She  had  a  fashion 
of  smoothing  back  your  hair  from  your 
forehead,  as~  if  you  were  a  child  ;  and 
of  coming  and  standing  beside  you, 
with  her  hand  laid  upon  your  shoulder 
in  a  caressing  touch.  This  action  of 
hers  was  especially  comforting  and 
assuring.  It  was  not  a  startling,  ner 
vous  hand  resting  on  your  shoulder. 
It  was  deep,  dimpled,  and  abiding.  It 
rested,  soothed,  and  helped  you  at 
once.  It  came  with  a  caress,  and  left 
you  with  a  laugh.  For  by  that  time 
its  owner  had  surely  said  something 
which  had  changed  the  entire  current 
of  your  thoughts  and  feeling,  if  you  had 
been  woe-begone  and  lonesome  when 
she  came. 

Emerson  says,  "  All  mankind  love  a 
lover  ;  "  and  Phoebe  Gary  surely  did. 
But  rarely  in  any  solemn,  heart-tearing 
way. 

"  Believe  me,"  she  said  once,  "  I 
never  loved  any  man  well  enough  to 
lie  awake  half  an  hour,  to  be  misera 
ble  about  him." 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  said  Alice.  "  It 
would  be  hard  to  believe  it,  were  you 
to  say  you  ever  had." 

Till  within  a  few  years  of  her  death, 
it  was  only  a  distant  adorer  that  Phoebe 
desired,  a  cavalier  servente,  who  would 
escort  her  to  public  places  occasionally, 
pay  her  chivalric  homage  on  Sabbath 
evenings,  and  through  the  week  retire 
to  his  affairs,  leaving  her  "  unboth- 
ered  "  to  attend  to  hers.  Her  ideal  of 
marriage  was  most  exalted  ;  and  she 


would  deliberately  have  chosen  to 
have  lived  "solitary  to  her  dying  day," 
rather  than  to  have  entered  that  sa 
cred  state,  without  the  assurance  that 
its  highest  and  purest  happiness  would 
have  been  hers. 

"  I  prefer  my  own  life  to  that  of  the 
mass  of  married  people  that  I  see," 
she  would  say  ;  "  it  is  a  dreary  mate 
rial  life  that  they  seem  to  me  to  live, 
no  inspiration  of  the  deepest  love  in  it. 
And  yet  I  believe  that  true  marriage 
holds  the  highest  and  purest  posssibil- 
ities  of  human  happiness."  It  was  a 
perfectly  characteristic  reply  that  she 
made  to  the  person  who  asked  her  if 
she  had  ever  been  disappointed  in  her 
affections  :  — 

"  No  ;  but  a  great  many  of  my  mar 
ried  friends  have." 

Equally  characteristic  was  her  an 
swer  to  the  erratic  officer  of  our  late 
war,  who  invited  her  to  drive  with  him, 
and  improved  the  opportunity  it  gave 
to  ask  her  to  marry  him.  She  re 
quested  a  short  time  to  consider. 

"  No,"  said  the  peremptory  hero. 
"  Now,  or  never." 

"  Never  !  "  was  the  response. 

We  may  believe  that  the  "  never  " 
did  not  lose  in  vim  from  the  fact, 
known  to  her,  that  the  same  daring 
adorer  had  offered  his  name  and  fame 
no  less  ardently,  but  a  few  days  be 
fore,  to  her  sister  Alice. 

They  parted  at  the  Twentieth  Street 
door  forever.  He  died  not  long  after, 
of  wounds  received  in  battle. 

Phoebe  was  as  innocently  fond  of 
admiration  as  she  was  of  decoration. 
She  was  never  vain  of  it,  but  always 
delighted  when  she  received  it.  She 
received  much.  When  it  culminated 
in  an  offer  of  marriage,  as  it  repeatedly 
did,  Phoebe  invariably  said,  "  No,  I 
thank  you  :  I  like  you  heartily  ;  but  I 
don't  want  to  marry  anybody."  The 
result  was,  her  lover  remained  her 
friend.  If  he  married,  his  wife  be 
came  her  friend  ;  and  the  two  women 
exchanged  visits  on  the  most  cordial 
I  terms.  There  was  not  an  atom  of 
sentimentality,  in  the  form  that  young 
Sparkler  calls  "  nonsense,"  in  the 
character  of  Phoebe  Gary. 

During  the  last  ten  years  of  her  life, 
the  woman's  heart  asserted  itself  in 
behalf  of  the  woman's  life.  In  1867, 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE  AND   PHOLBE    GARY. 


an  offer  of  marriage  was  made  her  by 
a  gentleman  eminent  in  the  world  of 
letters,  a  man  of  the  most  refined  nat 
ure,  extensive  culture,  and  real  piety- 
She  felt  a  deep  and  true  affection  for 
him,  as  lie  did  for  her.  The  vision  of 
a  new  life  and  home  shone  brightly  in 
upon  the  shadow  which  disease  and 
death  had  hung  over  her  own. 

Although  unconsciously,  Alice  had 
already  entered  the  Valley  of  Death, 
and  when,  with  her  failing  strength, 
the  loss  of  Phoebe  suddenly  confronted 
her,  she  shrank  back  appalled.  "  I 
suppose  I  shall  be  sustained,  if  worst 
conies  to  worst!"  she  wrote  ;  "but  I 
am  very  sad  now."  Phoebe  looked 
into  the  face  of  her  lover,  and  every 
impulse  of  her  heart  said,  "Yes  ;  "  she 
looked  into  the  face  of  her  sister,  and 
her  lips  said  without  faltering,  "  No." 
Making  the  sacrifice,  she  made  it 
cheerfully,  and  without  ado.  I  doubt 
if  Alice,  to  her  dying  day,  realized 
how  much  Phoebe  relinquished  in  her 
own  heart,  when  she  sacrificed  the 
prospect  of  this  new  life  for  her  sake. 

Referring  to  it  once,  Phcebe  said, 
"  When  I  saw  how  Alice  felt,  I  could 
not  leave  her.  If  I  had  married,  I 
should  have  gone  to  my  own  home  ; 
now  she  could  never  live  anywhere 
but  in  her  own  house.  I  could  not 
leave  her  alone.  She  has  given  so 
much  to  me,  I  said,  I  will  give  the 
rest  of  my  life  to  her.  It  is  right.  I 
would  not  have  it  otherwise.  Yet 
when  I  think  of  it,  I  am  sure  I  have 
never  lived  out  my  full  nature,  have 
never  lived  a  complete  life.  My  life  is 
an  appendage  to  that  of  Alice.  It  is 
my  nature  and  fate  to  walk  second  to 
her.  I  have  less  of  everything  that  is 
worth  having,  than  she  ;  less  power, 
less  money,  fewer  friends. 

"  Sometimes  I  feel  a  yearning  to 
have  a  life  my  very  own  ;  my  own 
house,  and  work,  and  friends  ;  and  to 
feel  myself  the  centre  of  all.  I  feel 
now  that  it  is  never  to  be.  Oh,  if  you 
knew  how  I  carry  her  on  my  heart ! 
If  she  goes  down  town,  I  am  anxious 
till  she  comes  back.  I  am  so  afraid 
some  harm  will  happen  to  her.  Think 
of  it !  for  more  than  thirty  years  our 
house  has  never  been  free  from  the 
sound  of  that  cough.  One  by  one,  all 
have  had  it,  and  gone,  but  we  two. 


Now,  when  I  am  alone,  I  have  that 
constant  dread  on  me  about  Alice. 
Of  course  I  could  not  leave  her.  Yet 
(with  a  pathetic  smile)  I  am  sure  we 
would  have  been  very  happy.  Don't 
you  think  so?"  Taking  a  picture 
from  the  inner  drawer  of  her  desk, 
she  gazed  on  it  long.  "  Yes,  I  am 
sure  of  it,"  she  said,  as  she  slowly  put 
it  back. 

Through  the  teachings  of  her  par 
ents,  and  the  promptings  of  her  own 
soul,  Phoebe  Gary  believed  in  the  final 
restoration,  from  sin  to  happiness,  ot 
the  entire  human  race,  through  the 
love  of  the  Father  and  the  atonement 
of  Jesus  Christ.  Her  faith  in  God, 
her  love  for  humanity,  never  wavered. 
No  less,  through  her  very  tempera 
ment,  her  dependent  soul  needed  all 
the  support  of  outward  form,  as  well 
as  of  inward  grace.  Alice  could  wor 
ship  and  be  happy  in  the  solitude  of 
her  own  room  ;  but  Phcebe  wanted  all 
the  accessions  of  the  Church  service. 
She  was  deeply  devotional.  In  her  un 
ostentatious  clevoutness,  there  was  a 
touch  of  the  old  Covenanter's  spirit. 
In  her  utter  dependence  on  the  mercy 
and  love  of  God,  there  was  an  absolute 
humility  of  heart,  touching  to  see. 

Although  she  believed  in  the  final 
restoration  of  the  human  race  to  holi 
ness,  she  believed  no  less  in  extreme 
penalties  for  sin.  She  expected  pun 
ishment  for  every  evil  deed  she  did, 
not  only  here  but 'hereafter.  This  be 
lief,  with  her  own  natural  timidity  and 
humility,  explains  every  cry  that  she 
ever  uttered  for  divine  mercy,  even  to 
the  last. 

How  much  more  to  her  was  the 
Spirit  of  the  Divine  Master  than  the 
tenets  of  any  creed,  we  may  know  from 
the  fact  that  for  many  years  of  her  life 
in  New  York,  she  was  a  member  of 
the  Church  of  the  Pilgrims  (Congrega 
tional),  its  pastor,  Dr.  Cheever,  her 
dear  friend  :  while  at  the  .time  of  her 
death  she  was  a  regular  attendant  at 
an  independent  church  (the  Church  of 
the  Stranger),  and  with  its  pastor,  Rev. 
Dr.  Deems,  was  the  associate  editor 
of  "  Hymns  for  all  Christians."  Faith, 
hope,  and  love  —  love  for  God,  love 
for  her  fellow-creatures  —  were  the 
prevailing  elements  of  her  religious 
faith  and  experience.  In  the  belief 


PHCEB&S  CARE   OF  ALICE. 


79 


and  practice  of  these  she  lived  and 
died,  a  brilliant,  devout,  humble,  lov 
ing,  and  lovable  woman. 


CHAPTER  XL 

PHOEBE'S     LAST     SUMMER.  —  DEATH 
AND  BURIAL. 

THERE  is  something  inexpressibly 
sad  in  the  very  thought  of  Phoebe's 
last  summer.  One  must  marvel  at  the 
providence  of  God,  which  demanded 
of  a  soul  so  dependent  upon  the  min 
istries  of  love,  so  clinging  in  every 
fibre  of  its  being,  that  it  should  go 
down  into  the  awful  shadow,  and  con 
front  death  alone.  Though  hard,  it 
would  have  been  easier  for  Alice  to 
have  met  such  a  fate.  Yet  it  was  not 
Alice,  it  was  Phoebe,  who  died  alone. 
She  not  only  was  alone,  but  sadder 
still,  she  knew  it.  In  the  very  last 
days  she  said,  "  I  am  dying  alone." 

The  general  impression  is  that  with 
a  constitution  exceptional  in  her  family, 
in  robust  health,  she  was  suddenly 
smitten,  and,  without  warning,  died. 
This  is  far  from  the  truth.  Even  in 
the  summer  of  1869,  she  complained  of 
symptoms  which  proved  to  be  the  fore 
runners  of  fatal  disease.  More  than 
once  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  this  heavi 
ness,  this  lethargy  which  comes  over 
me,  as  if  I  could  never  move  again  !  I 
wonder  what  it  is  !  "  But  Alice  was  so 
confirmedly,  and  every  day  becoming 
so  hopelessly  the  invalid  of  the  house 
hold,  Phoebe's  ailments  were  ignored 
by  herself,  and  scarcely  known  to  her 
friends.  In  the  presence  of  the  mortal 
agony  which  had  settled  on  her  sister's 
frame,  Phoebe  had  neither  heart  nor 
desire  to  speak  of  the  low,  dull  pain 
already  creeping  about  her  own  heart. 
Her  first  anxiety  was  to  spare  her 
sister  every  external  cause  for  solici 
tude  or  care. 

Nevertheless,  there  were  times  when 
her  own  mortality  was  too  strong  for 
her,  and  in  the  December  before  the 
death  of  Alice,  she  lay  for  many  days 
in  the  little  room  adjoining,  sick  al 
most  unto  death,  with  one  form  of 
the  disease  of  which,  at  last,  she  died. 
While  convalescing  from  this  attack,  I 


found  her  one  day  lying  on  a  sofa  in 
Alice's  room,  while  Alice,  in  an  arm 
chair,  was  sitting  by  her  side.  It  was 
one  of  Alice's  "  best  days."  Not  two 
months  before  her  death,  after  days 
and  nights  of  anguish  which  no  lan 
guage  can  portray,  she  yet  had  life 
enough  left  to  be  seated  in  that  arm 
chair,  dressed  in  white,  wrapped  in  a 
snowy  lamb's-wool  shawl,  with  a  dainty 
cap,  brave  with  pink  ribbons,  on  her 
head.  Moving  against  the  back  of  the 
chair,  she  at  last  pushed  this  jaunty 
cap  on  one  side,  when  Phoebe  looked 
up  from  her  pillow,  and  said  with  a 
sudden  laugh,  "Alice,  you  have  no 
idea  what  a  rakish  appearance  you  pre 
sent.  I  '11  get  you  the  hand-glass  that 
you  may  see  how  you  wear  your  cap." 
And  this  remark  was  the  first  of  a 
series  of  happy  sallies  which  passed 
between  these  two,  stricken  and  smit 
ten,  yet  tossing  to  and  fro  sunny  words, 
as  if  neither  had  a  sorrow,  and  as  if  all 
life  stretched  fair  and  bright  before 
them. 

Phoebe  probably  never  knew,  in  this 
world,  to  what  awful  tension  her  body 
and  soul  were  strained,  in  living  through 
the  suffering  of  Alice,  and  beholding 
her  die. 

She  herself  said  :  "  It  seems  to  me 
th.it  a  cord  stretches  from  Alice's  heart 
to  mine  ;  nothing  can  hurt  her  that  does 
not  hurt  me."  That  that  cord  was 
severed  at  death,  no  one  can  believe. 
Beyond  the  grave  Alice  drew  her  still, 
till  she  drew  her  into  the  skies. 

After  her  sister's  death  she  re 
marked  to  a  friend,  "  Alice,  when  she 
was  here,  always  absorbed  me,  and  she 
absorbs  me  still  ;  I  feel  her  constantly 
drawing  me." 

You  have  read  how,  after  seeing  the 
body  of  her  sister  laid  beneath  the 
snow  in  Greenwood,  Phoebe  came  back 
to  the  empty  home,  let  the  sunshine  in, 
filled  the  desolate  room  with  flowers, 
and  laid  down  to  sleep  on  the  couch 
near  that  of  Alice,  which  she  had  oc 
cupied  through  all  her  last  sickness  : 
how  she  rose  with  the  purpose  and 
will  to  work,  to  prepare  a  new  edition 
of  all  her  sister's  writings,  —  not  to 
sit  down  in  objectless  grief,  but  to  do 
all  that  her  sister  would,  and  she 
believed,  did  still  desire  her  to  do. 
There  was  not  a  touch  of  morbidness 


8o 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


in  her  nature.  By  birthright  hers  was 
an  open,  honest,  sunshiny  soul.  The 
very  effluence  of  her  music  sprang  from 
the'inspiration  of  truth,  faith,  and  love. 
In  herself  she  had  everything  left  to 
live  for.  Mentally,  she  had  not  yet 
risen  to  the  fullness  of  her  powers. 
She  was  still  in  the  prime  of  a  rich, 
attractive  womanhood  ;  her  black  hair 
untouched  of  gray,  her  hazel  eyes 
sparkling  as  ever,  her  cheeks  as  dim 
pled  as  a  baby's,  her  smile,  even  with 
its  droop  of  sadness,  more  winsome 
than  of  old.  To  her  own  little  store 
were  now  added  her  sister's  posses 
sions.  Save  a  few  legacies  and  me 
mentos,  everything  of  which  she  died 
possessed,  Alice  had  bestowed  upon 
Phoebe.  The  house  was  hers  ;  she  its 
sole  mistress,  possessed  of  a  life  com 
petency.  All  Alice's  friends  were  hers 
now  in  a  double  sense  ;  for  they  loved 
her  for  herself,  and  her  sister  also. 
She  sat  enshrined  in  a  tenderer  and 
deeper  sympathy  than  had  ever  envel 
oped  her  before  ;  her  fame  was  grow 
ing,  offering  her  every  promise  of  a 
more  brilliant  and  enduring  repute  in 
the  world  of  letters  ;  her  position  as 
the  leader  of  a  most  brilliant  and  in 
tellectual  society  was  never  so  assured. 
Dear  soul  !  life  had  come  to  her,  why 
should  she  not  be  sunshiny  and  brave  ? 
Nobody  had  left  her,  not  even  her 
dead  ;  were  not  Alice  and  Elmina,  and 
all  her  lost  ones,  going  in  and  out  with 
her,  supporting  her,  cheering  her  ? 
why  should  she  be  bowed  down  and 
sorrowful  ?  No  less  that  realistic  nat 
ure,  that  tenacious  heart,  cried  out  for 
the  old,  tangible  fellowship,  for  the  face 
to  face  communion,  the  touch  of  the 
hand,  the  tender,  brooding  smile,  even 
for  the  old  moan  of  pain  telling  of  the 
human  presence.  Alice  was  there  — 
yes,  she  believed  it  ;  yet  it  was  with 
spiritual  insight,  not  with  the  old  mor 
tal  vision,  that  she  beheld  her.  She 
was  all  womanly,  made  for  deep  house 
hold  loves.  With  all  her  sweet  be 
liefs,  she  was  alone. 

"Alice  left  me  this  morning,  and  I 
am  in  the  world  alone,"  was  the  mes 
sage  she  sent  me,  hundreds  of  miles 
away,  the  day  that  Alice  died. 

Everything  was  hers,  but  what  did 
it  avail  now  ?  There  was  no  Alice 
waiting  on  her  couch,  no  Alice  at  the 


table,  no  Alice  to  pour  out  long,  sweet 
songs  in  her  ear  ;  the  soul  of  her  soul 
had  passed  from  her.  She  tried  to  see 
the  light,  but  the  light  of  her  life  had 
gone  out. 

Phoebe's  resolution  was  to  go  on  with 
her  own  life-work,  not  as  if  her  sister 
had  not  died,  but  as  if  in  passing  away 
she  had  left  a  double  work  for  her  to 
perform.  She  felt  that  she  had  not  only 
her  own,  but  Alice's  works  to  revise 
and  edit,  Alice's  name  to  honor  and 
perpetuate.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  the  impulse,  the  energy  to  do,  was 
to  come  from  herself  alone.  It  could 
not  be.  Unconsciously  she  drooped. 
There  was  no  Alice  to  whom  to  read 
what  she  had  written.  No  Alice  to 
live  through  and  for,  as  she  lived 
through  her  and  for  her  for  so  many 
years.  The  tension  of  those  years  of 
watching  and  of  ceaseless  anxiety  bro 
ken,  the  reaction  of  unutterable  weari 
ness  and  helplessness  told  how  fearful 
had  been  their  strain.  She  did  not 
quiescently  yield  to  it.  She  went  out 
and  sought  her  friends.  She  called  her 
friends  in  to  her.  She  did  all  in  her 
power  to  shake  off  the  lethargy  steal 
ing  upon  her  ;  not  only  to  believe,  but 
to  feel,  that  she  had  much  left  to  live 
for.  In  vain.  She  who  had  so  loved 
to  live,  who  by  her  physical  as  well  as 
mental  constitution  could  take  delight 
in  simple  existence  ;  she  who  was  in 
sympathy  with  every  hope  and  fear 
which  animates  humanity,  came  to  her 
self  at  last,  to  find  that  her  real  inter 
est  had  all  been  transferred  to  the  be 
loved  objects  who  had  passed  within 
the  veil  of  the  unseen  and  eternal. 

Possessing,  as  she  believed  she  did, 
"the  old  Gary  constitution,"  with  a 
vital  hold  on  life  which  no  other  of  her 
sisters  had  possessed,  she  made  her 
plans  in  expectation  of  long  life.  And 
yet,  when  attacked  with  what  seemed 
to  be  slight  illness,  when  her  physi 
cian  spoke  hopefully  to  her  of  recov 
ery,  she  replied,  "  that  she  knew  of  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  recover, 
except  that  she  neither  found,  nor 
could  excite,  any  desire  in  herself  to  do 
so  ;  and  this  she  said  with  a  sort  of 
wonder."  Sickness,  grief,  it  was  not  in 
her  power  to  bear.  They  struck  at 
once  to  the  very  core  of  life.  She  grew 
gray  in  a  few  weeks.  She  began  to 


PHCEBE    GARY'S  DEATH. 


8l 


look  strangely  like  Alice.  Her  own 
sparkling  expression  was  gone  ;  and  in 
the  stead,  her  whole  face  took  on  the 
pathetic,  appealing  look  of  her  sister. 
This  resemblance  increased  till  she 
died.  "  She  grew  just  like  Miss  Al 
ice,"  said  Maria,  her  nurse,  after  her 
death.  "  She  grew  just  like  her  in 
looks,  and  in  all  her  ways.  Sometimes 
it  seemed  as  if  she  was  Miss  Alice." 

The  week  before  she  was  tiken  sick, 
returning  to  New  York,  I  called  upon 
her  at  once.  She  was  well,  and  out 
attending  the  meeting  of  a  convention. 
I  .left  a  message  that,  as  it  would  be 
impossible  for  me  to  come  again  for 
some  time,  I  should  await  her  promised 
visit  in  my  own  home.  Weeks  passed, 
in  which  a  task  I  was  bound  in  honor 
to  perform  by  a  certain  time,  withheld 
me  from  everything  else,  even  from 
the  reading  of  newspapers.  Yet  in 
the  midst  of  it  the  thought  of  Phoebe 
often  came  to  me,  and'l  felt  almost 
hurt  at  her  non-appearance.  Long  af 
ter  its  date,  a  miscarried  letter,  written 
by  the  hand  of  another,  came  to  me, 
telling  of  her  sickness.  When  it 
reached  me,  she  had  already  gone  to 
Newport.  I  answered  it,  telling  her 
that  had  I  known  of  her  state,  I  should 
have  left  everything  and  come  to  her, 
as  I  was  still  ready  to  do.  Carrying 
the  letter  down  to  post  without  delay, 
I  took  up  the  "  Tribune,"  and  the  first 
line  on  which  my  eye  rested  was, 
"  The  death  of  Phoebe  Gary." 

A  short  time  before,  Mrs.  Clymer, 
the  niece  who  had  all  her  life-time  been 
as  a  daughter  to  Alice  and  Phoebe, 
stood  over  the  death-bed  of  her  only 
brother.  She  closed  his  eyes  for  the 
last  time,  to  lie  down  on  her  own  bed 
of  suffering,  to  which  she  was  bound 
for  weeks.  Lying  there,  she  learned 
of  the  sickness  of  her  aunt  Phoebe, 
but  nothing  of  its  degree  ;  the  latter 
withholding  it  from  her.  As  soon  as 
she  was  able  to  sit  up,  she  left  Cincin 
nati  for  Newport.  Reaching  New 
York,  and  stopping  at  the  house  on 
Twentieth  Street  for  tidings,  she  was 
met  with  the  telegram  of  her  aunt's 
death. 

Such  were  the  inexorable  circum 
stances  which  withheld  two  who  loved 
her,  from  her  in  her  last  hours  ;  a  fact, 
the  very  memory  of  which,  to  them, 
6 


must  be  an  unavailing  and  life-long 
sorrow.  Thus  it  was  with  nearly  all 
of  her  friends  ;  they  were  out  of  the 
city,  far  from  her,  and  scarcely  knew  of 
her  sickness  until  they  read  the  an 
nouncement  of  her  death. 

She  felt  it  keenly  ;  and  in  her  last 
loneliness  her  loving  heart  would  call 
out,  "  Where  are  all  my  friends  ?  " 
Yet  at  no  time  was  she  wholly  bereft 
of  the  ministrations  of  affection.  Hon. 
Thomas  Jenckes,  of  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  and  Mr.  Francis  Nye,  of  New 
York,  the  friend  and  executor  of  both 
Alice  and  herself,  made  every  arrange 
ment  for  her  conveyance  to  Newport. 
She  was  accompanied  thither  by  a  de 
voted  lady  friend,  and  followed  thither 
by  another,  who  remained  with  her  till 
after  her  death.  Mr.  Oliver  Johnson 
made  the  journey  to  Newport  expressly 
to  see  his  old  friend  in  her  lonely  and 
suffering  state.  The  lady  who  was 
with  her  to  the  last,  Mrs.  Mary  Stevens 
Robinson,  daughter  of  Rev.  Dr.  Abel 
Stevens  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church,  who,  beside  her  nurse  Maria, 
is  the  only  person  living  who  can  tell 
truly  of  Phoebe  Gary's  last  hours,  has, 
at  the  request  of  the  writer,  kindly  sent 
the  following  graphic  personal  recollec 
tions  of  Phoebe,  and  a  record  of  those 
sad  days  at  Newport.  She  says  :  — 

"  I  first  met  with  Phoebe  Gary  in  the 
winter  of  1853-54.  She  was  still  young 
and  striking  in  her  appearance,  with 
keen,  merry,  black  eyes,  full  of  intelli 
gence  and  spirit,  a  full,  well-propor 
tioned  figure,  and  very  characteristic 
in  gesture,  aspect,  and  dress.  She  was 
fond  of  high  colors,  red,  orange,  etc., 
and  talked  well  and  rapidly.  She  was 
entirely  feminine  in  demeanor,  careful, 
in  the  main,  of  the  sensibilities  of  those 
whom  she  addressed,  though  so  warm 
by  nature,  and  so  quick  in  her  thought, 
as  to  be  sometimes  thrown  off  guard 
on  this  point,  in  the  ardor  of  discussion. 
My  father  was  at  this  period  editor  of 
a  magazine,  and  Alice  was  one  of  his 
contributors.  As  we  lived  in  the  same 
neighborhood,  we  exchanged  frequent 
visits  with  the  sisters  ;  we  attending 
their  evening  receptions,  and  they  our 
unceremonious  social  gatherings..  At 
these  companies  Phoebe's  conversation 
was  more  with  gentlemen  than  with 
ladies  ;  partly  because  she  liked  them 


82 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE   AND  PIKEBE   GARY. 


better,  and  partly  because  they  were 
sure  to  be  entertained  by  her  ;  but  she 
maintained  invariably  a  gentle  reserve, 
was  never  'carried  away'  in  the  ardor 
or  brilliancy  of  talking.  Her  wit  had 
no  sting,  her  frankness  and  sincerity 
were  those  of  a  child,  and  she  was 
always  '  pure  womanly.'  In  remarks 
upon  persons  and  their  performances, 
she  was  free  and  discriminating.  Here 
in  it  was  perhaps  less  habitual  for  her 
to  use  restraint,  than  it  was  with  Alice. 
The  latter  was  carefully,  conscientious 
ly  just  and  generous.  She  was  content 
only  to  give  full  credit  for  whatever 
was  commendable  in  others,  or  in  what 
they  accomplished. 

"  Our  removal  from  town,  and  other 
interferences,  interrupted  this  acquaint 
ance,  until,  one  spring  day  some  five 
or  six  years  ago,  I  chanced  to  meet 
Phoebe  i'n  a  store,  on  the  quest  of  shop 
ping,  like  myself.  We  exchanged  warm 
greetings,  talked  perhaps  for  five  min 
utes  ;  but  instead  of  the  usual  formulas, 
her  words  were  so  fresh  and  piquant 
that  I  recall  them  even  now.  I  men 
tioned  the  fact  of  my  father's  being 
pastor  of  a  Methodist  church  at  Mama- 
roneck.  1 1  don't  belong  among  the 
Methodists,'  said  Phoebe,  in  her  reply, 
'  but  whenever  I  feel  my  heart  getting 
chilly,  I  go  to  a  meeting  of  your  peo 
ple, —  any  kind  of  a  meeting.  Their 
warmth  is  genuine  and  irresistible.  It 
is  contagious,  too,  and  has  crept  inside 
other  walls  than  your  own.' 

"  When  I  asked  her  to  visit  us,  she 
answered  in  her  ready  way  :  '  Well,  if 
you  will,  I  will  come  to-morrow.  Alice 
is  away,  and  I  can  leave  now,  better 
than  when  she  comes  back.' 

"  Yes,  Alice  was  away.  I  discovered 
afterward  that  this  cheery  soul,  who 
could  sing  songs,  get  books  into  mar 
ket,  and  whose  plenitude  of  spirits  was 
apparently  unfailing,  whose  very  gait, 
at  once  smooth  and  rapid,  expressed 
swift  and  direct  force,  this  hearty,  hap 
py  woman,  pined  somewhat  when  sev 
ered  from  her  mate.  In  the  stillness 
of  the  house  her  gayety  drooped,  and 
she  had  no  one  to  think  of.  The  ten 
der  curves  of  her  mouth,  the  arch  of 
her  eyelids,  something  round  and  child 
like  in  the  whole  contour,  betokened 
this  dependence  of  affection  in  her. 

"  She    came    to  us    on    the  morrow, 


told  numberless  stories  and  jests,  talked 
with  her  habitual  earnestness,  border 
ing  on  vehemence  when  the  conversa 
tion  turned  on  spiritualism  (apologizing 
afterward,  fearing  she  had  'forgotten 
herself '),  and  seemed  heartily  to  enjoy 
everything  connected  with  "her  visit. 
We  were  all  comfortable  in  her  pres 
ence,  and  utterly  ignored  that  slight 
constraint  one  often  experiences  along 
with  the  pleasure  of  having  a  guest  in 
the  house.  The  second  day  was  rainy, 
so  she  could  not  ride  out,  as  we  had 
planned,  to  see  the  scenes  of  the  neigh 
borhood.  But  she  fell  to  discoursing 
on  the  charms  of  a  wet  day  in  a  coun 
try  house,  the  fresh,  growing  verdure 
without,  the  open  fire,  the  friendly  as 
pect  of  a  library,  the  converse  on  men, 
women,  and  books,  till  we  ceased  to 
regret  the  weather,  and  congratulated 
ourselves  silently  through  the  day,  say 
ing,  '  What  a  happy  time,  what  a  charm 
ing  rainy  day  we  are  having  !  ' 

"  In  the  course  of  conversation  some 
one  remarked  her  resemblance  to  Sap 
pho,  as  she  is  known  to  us  by  the  bust, 
and  by  descriptions  ;  the  olive-brown 
tint,  the  stature  rather  under  size,  the 
low  brow,  etc.  Phoebe  accepted  the 
comparison  smilingly,  in  silence,  but 
with  a  natural,  modest  pleasure.  She 
won  the  favor  of  a  child,  the  only  one 
in  the  family.  He  wanted  a  poem,  but 
dared  not  ask  for  it.  Later,  when  the 
request  reached  her  ears,  she  sent  him 
some  simple,  characteristic  verses  upon 
himself. 

"  During  this  visit,  as  often  after 
ward,  I  could  but  note  the  rapid  move 
ment  of  her  mind.  She  thought  quick 
ly,  spoke  quickly  ;  never  chattering 
nonsense,  nor  filling  spaces  of  conver 
sation  with  phrases,  but  always  racy, 
healthful  utterances,  full  of  sense,  wit, 
and  vigor.  Her  natural  simplicity 
never  forsook  her  ;  something  of  rural 
life,  of  virgin  soil,  the  clear  breeziness 
of  Western  plains  was  suggested  by 
her  character,  as  manifested  in  speech, 
aspect,  and  manner. 

"  After  this   visit   I  did  not  see  her 
again   till   the   day  of   Alice's  funeral. 
There,  her  extreme  but  restrained  grief 
touched  my  heart  ;  for  Death  had  en 
tered  my  own  door,  and  borne  away  my 
I  best-beloved.     When  she  turned  from 
!  her  last  look  at  her  sister's  face,  and 


MRS.  KOB/KSON'S  LETTER. 


was  supported  by  friends  to  her  seat, 
it  was  plain  that  this  bereavement  had 
taken  hold  of  the  roots  of  her  life,  had 
drowned  its  bases  in  tears.  I  sent  a 
note  of  sympathy,  not  wishing  to  in 
trude  upon  her  sorrow.  But  some 
weeks  later,  hearing  that  she  was  much 
alone,  and  needed  society,  I  called  one 
evening,  and  continued  my  visits  week 
ly  and  finally  daily,  up  to  her  last  de 
parture  from  town.  In  some  measure, 
she  recovered  her  natural  flow  of  spirits. 
Once,  speaking  of  the  Franco-German 
war,  I  said  that  the  French  more  than 
any  other  nation  were  tainted  with  the 
virus  of  Roman  corruption,  as  evident 
in  the  latter  (Roman)  empire,  instancing 
their  epicurism,  sensuality,  cruelty,  os 
tentation,  luxury,  etc. 

'"I  see,'  said  Phoebe,  'you  think 
they  are  still  in  the  gall  of  bitterness 
and  bond  of  iniquity.' 

"  She  liked  to  talk  of  love  and  mar 
riage,  though  entirely  reticent  of  her 
own  affaires  du  cosur ;  and  she  was  not 
without  them.  On  those  subjects  she 
spoke  with  a  woman's  heart,  and  con 
ceived  the  noblest  ideals  of  them. 

"  '  Whenever  I  write  a  story,  often 
when  only  a  poem,'  she  said  once,  '  it 
must  turn  upon  love.' 

"  One  evening,  the  first  birthday  of 
Alice  after  her  death,  I  made  one  of  a 
tea-party  of  four  at  the  little  house 
where  so  many  guests  had  been  so 
charmingly  entertained.  An  elderly 

widow,  Mrs.  C ,  who  stayed  with 

Phoebe  after  Alice's  death,  an  old  friend, 

Miss  Mary  B ,  Phoebe,  and  myself 

surrounded  the  table.  The  snug  din 
ing-room,  the  old-fashioned  tea-service, 
the  quaint  china,  the  light  biscuit, 
sweet  butter,  all  the  dishes  comme  il 
faut,  everything  bespeaking  a  carefully- 
ordered  domestic  life  —  I  am  sure  you 
can  recall  similar  evenings  full  of  the 
same  delightful  impressions.  We  had 
jellied  chicken  that  Phoebe  had  tried 
for  the  first  time,  for  the  occasion,  and 
with  entire  success.  We  gossiped  over 
our  fragrant  tea,  and  smiled  at  our 
selves,  a  gathering  of  lone  women  ;  and 
all  agreed  that  the  hostess  was  less 
like  an  old  maid  than  any  of  the  others. 
Cheerful  she  was,  in  truth,  much  like 
her  natural  self  ;  yet  in  the  evening, 
sitting  apart  with  Miss  B ,  she  con 
fessed  that  the  absence  of  Alice  affected 


her  seriously  ;  that  when  she  tried  to 
write,  no  words  would  come  ;  that  fail 
ing  here,  she  turned  to  household 
affairs,  but  could  scarcely  accomplish 
anything.  Every  morning  her  first 
thought  on  waking  was,  '  Here  is  an 
other  leaden  day  to  get  through  with  ; 
it  will  be  precisely  like  yesterday,  and 
such  will  be  all  days  in  all  time  to 
come  !  ' 

"  Plainly  the  watching  and  anxiety 
of  the  previous  year  had  jarred  her 
nerves.  They  were  firmly  set  by  nature, 
but  through  her  illness  their  attenuation 
became  extremely  painful ;  they  grew 
sharp  and  fine  as  the  worn  strings  of 
an  instrument ;  it  was  as  if  one  could 
see  them  stretched  too  long,  and  too 
tensely  —  about  to  snap,  as  they  did, 
indeed,  at  last. 

"One  Wednesday  afternoon  I 
stopped  at  the  door,  and  hearing  that 
she  was  lying  down,  I  simply  left  a 
bouquet  with  my  love.  When  next  I 
called,  she  entered  the  room  with  a 
poem  about  my  flowers,  the  last  verses 
she  ever  wrote,  about  the  last  paper 
that  she  touched  with  a  pen.  It  seems 
that  on  the  day  of  my  former  call  she 
had  given  the  morning  to  a  memorial 
article  of  Alice  (for  the  '  Ladies'  Repos 
itory '  of  Boston)  and  being  quite  worn 
out  when  it  was  done,  lay  down  to  rest. 
My  flowers  were  brought  freshly-cut, 
moistened  by  some  drops  of  a  spring 
shower,  and  set  on  a  stand  by  her 
lounge.  She  looked  at  them  a  few  min 
utes,  rose  quickly,  'as  if  quite  rested,' 

Mrs.  C said,  was  gone  about 

twenty  minutes  in  the  opposite  room, 
and  returned  with  this  pretty  resolution 
of  thanks. 

"  Shortly  afterward  we  attended  the 
anniversary  of  one  of  the  Woman  Suf 
frage  Societies,  where  we  heard  Mrs. 
Livermore,  Grace  Greenwood,  Dr.  Eg- 
gleston,  Mrs.  Howe,  Lucy  Stone,  and 
others.  Miss  Gary's  interest  in  the 
movement  was  strong,  and  her  remarks 
on  the  speakers  just,  and  admirably  to 
the  point.  She  was  then  apparently  as 
well  and  as  cheerful  as  usual. 

"  The  following  Sunday  she  passed 
in  New  Jersey,  with  her  friends,  Mrs. 
Victor  and  Mrs.  Rayl.  On  her  return, 
Monday,  she  was  seized  with  a  chill, 
which  recurred  more  or  less  regularly 
for  upwards  of  three  weeks.  They  were 


84 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND   PHCEBE   GARY. 


extremely  severe  ;  the  suffering  and 
exhaustion,  for  the  time,  were  like 
those  of  death  itself.  Her  appetite 
grew  capricious,  and  soon  failed  alto 
gether.  We  tried  to  tempt  it  by  follow 
ing  her  fancies  ;  but  as  soon  as  a  new 
dish  or  drink  was  brought,  she  ceased 
to  care  for  it.  A  stomachic  cough  con 
nected  with  a  derangement  of  the  liver, 
that  was  common  to  the  entire  family, 
and  imperfect  sleep,  combined  to  under 
mine  her  strength.  She  suffered  no 
pain,  but  an  appalling  misery,  attended 
with  extreme  depression  of  spirits. 
She  lamented  often  her  lonely  and  for 
lorn  condition,  and  said  her  illness  was 
'quite  as  much  in  the  mind  as  in  the 
body.'  This  however,  was  an  attend 
ant  symptom  of  her  malady. 

"After  seeing  her  at  the  time  of 
Alice's  funeral,  most  of  her  friends 
were  too  busy  in  the  affairs  of  spring, 
etc.,  to  make  visits  ;  and  she  had  been 
ill  for  several  weeks,  before  any  of  them 
knew  of  her  affliction.  I  visited  her 
daily,  answered  her  correspondence, 
reacl  much  aloud,  laughed  and  chatted  ; 
did  anything  I  could  to  alleviate  the 
mortal  weariness  that  had  come  over 
her.  She  confessed  to  no  confidence 
in  any  medical  aid.  Invalids  had  not 
been  wanting  in  the  family ;  and  no 
physician  or  medicine  had  availed  for 
them.  She  thought  that  when  they 
were  so  ill  as  to  need  the  regular  visits 
of  a  physician,  they  were  subjects  for 
death.  Occasionally  the  old  vigor 
would  shine  forth  for  a  day  ;  but  it 
was  sure  to  be  followed  by  a  relapse. 

"  On  one  of  these  better  evenings, 
her  friends,  Miss  Mary  L.  Booth  and 
Mrs.  Wright,  called  to  see  her.  She 
lay  on  her  lounge,  and  talked  with  much 
of  her  former  vivacity  ;  recounted  an 
accident  that  had  happened  some  nights 
previously.  Feeling  restless  and  fever 
ish,  she  had  risen  in  the  dark  and  made 
her  way  to  the  bath-room,  wishing  to 
bathe  her  head.  In  the  dark  she  fell, 
hit  her  head  against  a  chair  with  such 
force  as  to  cut  it,  fainted,  and  lay  in 
sensible  till  restored  to  consciousness 
by  the  air  from  an  open  window.  She 
then  crept  back  to  her  couch,  and  was 
found  quite  exhausted  in  the  morning. 
This  serious  accident  she  related  with 
all  the  lightness  it  would  admit,  and  act 
ually  made  sport  of  some  of  the  details. 


"  '  You  have  read  in  sensation  stories 
of  heroines  weltering  in  their  gore,'  she 
said  ;  I  understand  now  exactly  what 
that  means,  for  I  lay  and  weltered  in 
my  gore  for  the  best  of  the  night,  and 
it  was  a  very  disagreeable  proceeding  : 
I  never  want  to  welter  again.' 

"  As  her  strength  declined  each  day 
instead  of  mending,  she  was  possessed 
of  a  desire  to  go  away,  and  was  per 
suaded  that  an  entire  change  would  be 
of  benefit.  But  in  her  invalid  state  she 
was  "unwilling  to  impose  herself  on  any 
of  her  friends.  Finally  we  persuaded 
her  to  accept  a  very  cordial  invitation 
from  Mrs.  H.  O.  Houghton  of  Cam 
bridge,  Mass.,  wife  of  Mr.  Houghton, 
the  publisher.  Preparations  were  made 
for  the  journey  ;  but  on  the  day  appoint 
ed  for  it,  she  was  too  ill  to  be  moved  from 
her  room,  and  the  plan  was  abandoned. 

"  We  then  considered  several  places, 
deciding  at  last  upon  Newport,  as  offer 
ing  homelike  quarters,  with  two  single 
ladies,  sisters,  of  a  Quaker  family  with 
whom  I  was  acquainted.  It  was  ar 
ranged  for  Mr.  Jenckes  (of  Providence) 
and  Mrs.  Rayl  to  escort  her  thither, 
while  I  was  to  follow  a  fortnight  later. 
The  journey  taxed  her  severely,  and 
prostrated  her  to  such  an  extent  for 
some  days  after  her  arrival,  that  her 
life  was  despaired  of.  The  air,  that 
we  hoped  would  prove  medicinal,  was 
thought  to  be  too  strong  for  her  shat 
tered  frame,  though  the  house  stands  a 
mile  from  the  sea.  Whether  it  was 
too  strong  or  not,  I  cannot  tell  ;  she 
herself  chose  it  in  preference  to  mount 
ain  air ;  but  she  sank  steadily  after 
reaching  Newport,  and  was  too  feeble 
to  bear  removal.  She  had  been  for 
nearly  three  months  without  regular  or 
heathful  rest.  She  ate  and  drank  al 
most  nothing,  could  not  lie  down,  but 
sat  most  of  the  time  in  a  chair,  leaning 
forward,  supported  on  pillows,  or  was 
propped  up  in  the  bed.  From  dawn  till 
eight  or  nine  o'clock  she  was  in  the 
sharpest  misery ;  for  the  rest  she  sat 
with  closed  eyes  in  a  semi-stupor,  from 
which  she  would  arouse  when  ad 
dressed. 

"  Reading  and  conversation  were 
given  over.  But  one  day  I  found  Mr. 
Whittier's  poem  on  Alice,  in  '  The  At 
lantic,'  '  The  Singer,' and  read  it  at  her 
request.  When  I  had  half  done  I 


PHCEBE   GARY'S  DEATH. 


paused,  thinking  she  had  fallen  asleep  ; 
but  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and  asked  why 
I  did  not  go  on.  '  It  was  all  one  could 
wish  or  ask  for/  she  said,  on  hearing  it 
to  the  close. 

"  Such  nursing  as  she  required  was 
very  simple.  To  fan  away  the  flies, 
give  the  medicine  at  regular  hours, 
change  her  position  frequently,  lift  her 
from  the  chair  to  the  bed  and  back 
again,  and  bathe  her  swollen  feet  in  salt 
water  ;  this  was  nearly  all  that  could 
be  done.  Of  food  and  drink  she  took 
very  little,  and  that  mainly  cold  milk, 
beef  tea,  or  iced  claret.  Some  two  or 
three  times  the  doctor's  prescriptions 
were  too  powerful  for  her  exhausted 
frame,  and  caused  severe  pain,  accom 
panied  with  delirium.  She  would  then 
rave  at  Maria  and  myself,  upbraiding 
us  as  the  cause  of  her  sufferings  ;  but 
the  frenzy  past,  she  was  gentle  and 
sweet,  like  her  usual  self.  One  even 
ing,  in  a  paroxysm  of  this  sort,  she 
begged  to  be  laid  on  the  floor,  and  after 
expostulating  in  vain,  we  spread  a  quilt 
down,  and  laid  her  on  it.  Here  she  re 
mained  for  above  two  hours,  I  stand 
ing  over  her,  and  by  slow  degrees  lift 
ing  her  back  to  the  bed.  But  these  sad 
aberrations  were  not  frequent  nor  last 
ing.  They  ceased  with  the  harmful 
medicines. 

"  Many  persons  in  Newport,  learning 
of  her  illness  called  to  leave  their  con 
dolences  ;  among  others,  Mr.  Higgin- 
son,  and  Mrs.  Parton.  Her  friend 
Oliver  Johnson  called  twice,  and 
though  almost  too  weak  to  speak,  she 
saw  him  both  times.  The  first  was  on 
Saturday,  when  he  promised  to  call 
again  the  next  day.  The  tears  rolled 
down  his  face  as  he  beheld  her  altered 
aspect ;  her  reception  of  him  was  most 
affectionate.  On  Sunday  evening  she 
seemed  quite  improved  ;  told  the  doc 
tor  she  believed  she  had  begun  to  get 
well,  and  wanted  to  be  all  dressed  for 
Mr.  Johnson's  call :  but  for  that  prep 
aration  she  was  not  equ  il.  I  had  not 
been  out  for  some  time,  therefore  went 
to  church  in  the  morning,  leaving  her 
with  Maria.  On  my  return  I  found 
her  still  comfortable,  though  extremely 
restless,  wishing  to  be  moved  every 
five  or  ten  minutes.  '  Don't  mind  if 
you  pull  me  limb  from  limb,'  she  said 
quite  placidly.  'Pull  me  about,'  was 


her  constant  request.  I  repeated  much 
of  the  sermon,  and  she  commented  on 
it  in  her  naturally  rapid  manner.  All 
this  day  she  was  more  or  less  talkative. 
She  saw  Mr.  Johnson,  who  left  with 
her  a  nosegay  of  sweet-peas  of  rare  va 
rieties.  Their  odor  was  that  of  sweet 
apples,  and  this  I  spoke  of.  '  Who 
said  anything  of  sweet  apples  ?  '  she 
asked,  lifting  her  eyes.  When  I  made 
the  comparison  again,  she  buried  her 
face  repeatedly  in  the  flowers,  crushing 
them  in  her  strong  desire  to  extract 
their  fragrance.  She  thought  she 
would  like  a  sweet  apple,  but,  when 
it  was  brought,  could  only  smell  of  it. 
That  afternoon,  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  she  kissed  and  caressed  Maria, 
talked  of  how  they  would  go  home, 
went  over  pleasantly  every  detail  of  the 
anticipated  journey  as  a  child  would 
talk  of  it,  and  seemed  altogether  so 
tranquil  and  comfortable  that  any  one 
unaware  of  her  low  state  might  have 
hoped  for  convalescence.  But  we 
could  entertain  no  such  hope. 

"  The  restlessness  increased  all  the 
next  day,  though  in  other  respects  she 
remained  comfortable.  Several  times 
I  lifted  her  alone  from  the  chair  to  the 
bed,  though  how,  I  can  hardly  tell  now. 
It  was  something  I  could  do  better 
than  the  others,  for  they  invariably 
hurt  her  ;  but  generally  Maria  helped 
me.  In  the  evening  her  restlessness 
increased,  so  that  she  could  not  lie  still 
a  moment.  I  was  quite  worn  out,  and 
for  the  first  time,  went  early  to  a  little 
room  on  the  floor  above,  leaving  a  writ 
ten  report  for  the  doctor,  who  generally 
called  at  eleven.  I  noticed  when  I 
went  up-stairs  that  the  moon  was  shin 
ing,  and  that  all  was  perfectly  still  ;  not 
so  much  as  a  leaf  was  stirring.  I  lay 
quiet,  but  awake  ;  heard  the  doctor  en 
ter,  and  go  into  her  room. 

"  Suddenly  a  gust  of  wind  wailed 
through  the  house,  and  blew  my  door 
shut.  A  moment  after  I  heard  Phoebe's 
voice  in  a  faint  but  piercing  cry,  and 
some  one  came  up  for  me.  I  was  two  or 
three  minutes  in  putting  on  a  wrapper, 
etc.,  in  the  room  adjoining  hers,  but  all 
was  still  in  there.  When  I  entered, 
her  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  repose  of 
death  was  settling  on  her  brow.  The 
death  throe  had  seized  her,  but  it  lasted 
for  a  moment  only,  and  for  this  I  gave 


86 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   GARY. 


thanks  even  at  that  hour,  for  she  had 
such  fear  of  pain  ;  ^nd  though  she  suf 
fered  much,  yet  of  actual  pain  she  had 
but  little  from  the  beginning  to  this  last 
hour.  This  was  mercifully  ordered  in 
view  of  her  peculiar  inability  to  bear 
acute  suffering.  After  death,  her  face, 
almost  immediately,  wore  a  tranquil 
smile  —  a  smile  as  through  tears  of  sun 
light  shining  through  rain  ;  and  though 
I  saw  it  no  more  after  the  last  offices  of 
the  hour  were  rendered,  I  was  told  that 
till  the  coffin-lid  closed  finally  upon  it, 
this  repose  remained  stamped  there. 
Thus  passed  away  one  of  the  dearest 
souls  that  God  ever  set  on  the  earth." 

Maria's  story  of  that  hour  which  she 
spent  alone  with  Phoebe,  Phoebe's  last 
hour  in  this  world,  is  most  touching. 
"  She  could  not  lie  down,  but  she  was 
so  restless,"  said  Maria;  "she  kept 
saying  to  me, '  Maria,  put  my  hair  back. 

There!  —  that  is  just  as 's  hand 

used  to  feel  on  my  forehead  —  so  gen 
tle.  And  to  think  that  you  and  I  are 
in  the  world  alone  —  that  after  all,  I  've 
nobody  but  you,  Maria  ?  Everybody 
else  gone  so  far  away.  Where  are  my 
friends  ?  Well,  when  we  go  back  we 
won't  live  alone  any  longer,  will  we  ? 
We  won't  live  alone  as  we  did  last 
spring.  We  '11  open  the  house  and  fill 
it,  won't  we,  Maria.'  ....  'But  if  you 
go  back,  and  I  don't  know,  don't  let 
me  look  ugly  to  my  friends  ;  go  out  and 
buy  me  a  white  dress.  All  my  life  I  've 
wanted  to  wear  a  white  dress,  and  I 
never  could  because  I  was  so  dark.  I 
think  I  could  wear  one  then.  Put  it  on 
me  yourself,  Maria,  and  cover  me  all 
over  with  flowers,  so  I  shall  not  look 
gloomy  and  dreadful  to  anybody  who 
looks  on  me  for  the  last  time.' " 

Thus  she  talked,  one  moment  as  if 
they  were  going  back  to  life  and  the  old 
home  on  Twentieth  Street,  with  uttered 
yearnings  for  friends,  and  an  outreach- 
ing  toward  a  mortal  future  full  of  sun 
shine  and  human  companionship  ;  the 
next,  speaking  as  if  her  death  were 
certain,  the  feminine  instinct  of  decora 
tion,  the  longing  to  look  pleasant  to 
those  she  loved,  strong  even  in  disso 
lution. 

The  loving  heart  was  mightier  than 
all.  She  would  suddenly  stop  her  low, 
rapid  utterances,  and  stretching  out 
her  arms  throw  them  around  Maria's 


neck,  covering  her  face  with  caresses 
and  kisses,  ending  always  with  the 
words :  "  You  and  I  are  all  alone, 
Maria.  After  all,  I've  nobody  but 
you!"  bestowing  upon  her  in  that 
moment  some  of  her  most  precious 
personal  treasures. 

Without  an  instant's  warning  the 
death  throe  came.  She  knew  it. 
Throwing  up  her  arms  in  instinctive 
fright,  this  loving,  believing,  but  timid 
soul,  who  had  never  stood  alone  in  all 
her  mortal  life,  as  she  felt  herself 
drifting  out  into  the  unknown,  the 
eternal,  starting  on  the  awful  passage 
from  whence  there  is  no  return  cried, 
in  a  low,  piercing  voice,  "  O  God, 
have  mercy  on  my  soul  !  "  and  died. 

She  had  her  wish.  The  white  robe 
that  she  had  so  longed  all  her  life  to 
wear,  fell  in  fleecy  folds  about  her  in 
death.  She  slept  amid  flowers,  fresh 
and  fragrant.  The  tender  heart  whose 
depth  of  affection  had  never  been 
fully  seen  or  felt  within  its  outward 
shield  of  resplendent  wit,  now  shone 
through  and  transfigured  every  feature. 
Every  lineament  was  smiling,  childlike, 
loving.  She  had  her  wish.  No  look 
on  the  living  face  of  Phoebe  Gary  was 
ever  so  sweet  as  the  last. 

Phoebe  Gary  died  at  Newport,  Rhode 
Island,  Monday,  July  31,  1871.  Her 
body  was  brought  to  the  empty  house 
on  Twentieth  Street,  New  York,  and 
from  thence  was  taken  for  funeral  ser 
vices  to  All  Souls  Church,  corner  of 
Fourth  Avenue  and  Twentieth  Street, 
whose  congregation,  coming  and  go 
ing,  Phoebe  had  so  often  watched  from 
her  chamber  window,  with  emotions  of 
affection.  Her  funeral  was  attended 
by  her  four  nieces,  by  the  few  of  her 
many  friends  at  that  time  left  in  the 
heated  city,  and  by  a  goodly  company 
of  strangers  to  whom  her  name  was 
dear.  The  services  were  intrusted  to 
the  Rev.  A.  G.  Laurie,  a  Scottish  Uni- 
versalist  clergyman,  and  Rev.  Bernard 
Peters,  both  old  and  dear  friends  of 
the  Gary  family,  the  former  having 
known  Phoebe  from  childhood.  The 
"  New  York  Tribune,"  speaking  of  the 
solemnities,  said  :  — 

"  The  body  was  placed  in  the  centre 
aisle,  near  the  chancel,  the  organ  play 
ing  a  dirge.  When  the  attendants  had 
arranged  the  final  details,  and  the  last 


THE   CARY  SISTERS. 


strains  of  music  were  dying  away,  a 
cloud  that  had  obscured  the  sun 
passed  from  before  it,  and  the  whole 
church  was  illumined  by  soft,  golden 
tints,  seemingly  indicative  of  the  glory 
which  awaited  the  peaceful  spirit  that 
had  so  recently  passed  away." 

At  the  conclusion  of  Mr.  Laurie's 
affectionate  and  tearful  address,  he 
read  Phoebe's  hymn,  "  Nearer  Home," 
which  was  sung  by  the  choir,  who  also 
sang  the  following  hymn,  written  by 
the  officiating  clergyman  :  — 

O  stricken   heart,   what   spell   shall   move 
thee, 

What  charm  shall  lift  that  grief  away, 
Which,  like  a  leaden  mist  above  thee, 

Shuts  out  the  shining  of  the  day  ? 

Is  out  of  sight  the  friend  unto  thee 
'Fore  every  friend  that  sat  the  first  ? 

Let  not  her  silence  thus  undo  thee  ; 
The  blank  of  Death  is  not  its  worst. 

And  never  shade  of  wrong  lay  on  her  ; 

She  loved  her  kith,  her  kind,  her  God, 
And  from  her  mind  returned  the  Donor 

Rich  harvest  for  the  seed  He  sowed. 

She  died  in  stress  of  love  and  duty, 
On  others  spent  her  work  and  will  ; 

Unself  —  O  Christ,  thy  chiefest  beauty 
Was  hers,  and  she  is  with  Thee  still. 

Then,  smitten  heart,  renew  thy  gladness  : 
Rejoice  that  thou  canst  not  forget ; 

In  every  pulse,  with  solemn  sadness, 
Unseen,  but  present,  feel  her  yet. 

Horace  Greeley  and  others  went  as 
far  as  they  could  with  this  clear  friend 
on  her  long  journey.  When  they  saw 
all  that  was  mortal  of  this  last  sister  of 
her  race  laid  in  Greenwood,  and  turned 
back  to  her  empty  house,  they  realized 
with  unspoken  sorrow  that  its  last  light 
had  gone  out,  and  that  the  home  in 
Twentieth  Street  was  left  desolate  for- 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE        SISTERS        COMPARED.  —  THEIR 
LAST   RESTING-PLACE. 

IT  is  impossible  to  estimate  either 
sister  without  any  reference  to  the 
other,  —  as  impossible  as  to  tell  what  a 


husband  and  wife,  modified  in  habit 
and  character  by  many  years  of  wedded 
life,  would  have  been  had  they  never 
lived  together. 

Alice  Gary  was  remarkable  for  the 
fullness  and  tenderness  of  her  emo 
tional  nature,  and  for  the  depth  and 
fidelity  of  her  affections  ;  through 
these  she  was  all  softness  and  gentle 
ness.  But  mentally  she  was  a  strong 
woman  —  strong  in  will,  energy,  indus 
try,  and  patience  ;  through  these  she 
faced  fate  with  a  masculine  strength  of 
courage  and  endurance.  It  was  not 
easy,  but  her  will  was  strong  enough 
to  compel  her  life  to  do  noble  service. 

Phoebe,  mentally  and  emotionally, 
was  in  every  attribute  essentially  femi 
nine.  The  terror  of  her  mortal  life 
was  responsibility.  It  seemed  abso 
lutely  necessary  to  her  existence  to 
know  that  somebody  stood  between 
her  and  all  the  inexorable  demands 
and  exigencies  of  this  world.  "  I  be 
lieve  a  consciousness  of  responsibility 
could  kill  Phcebe  Gary,  even  if  she 
were  in  perfect  health,"  said  Alice. 
"  She  does  not  wish  to  feel  responsi 
bility  for  anything,  not  even  for  the 
saving  of  her  own  soul  ;  for  that  rea 
son  alone  she  would  be  a  Roman  Cath 
olic  if  she  could,  and.  lay  the  whole 
burden  of  her  salvation  on  the  Church. 
Unfortunately  for  her  comfort,  the  lit- 
eralness  of  her  mind  makes  that  im 
possible." 

Alice  Gary  was  preeminently,  and  in 
the  highest  and  finest  sense,  an  at 
tractive  woman.  She  was  beloved  of 
women.  Young  girls  were  drawn  to 
ward  her  in  a  sort  of  idolatry,  and  she 
was  universally  beloved  of  men.  No 
mm  could  come  within  the  sphere  of 
her  presence  without  feeling  all  that 
was  most  tender,  chivalric,  and  true  in 
his  manhood,  instinctively  going  forth 
toward  the  woman  by  his  side.  It  was 
the  fine  potent  power  of  her  femininity, 
her  gentleness,  and  sincerity,  her  ten 
derness  and  purity,  which  inspired  all 
that  was  most  tender  and  reverent  in 
him.  This  feeling  of  sacred  affection 
for  Alice  Gary  was  felt  by  all  men  who 
were  her  friends,  no  matter  how^  various 
or  conflicting  their  tastes  might  be  in 
other  things.  When  the  loveliness  of 
her  face  was  not  that  of  youth,  there 
were  artists  who  used  to  go  to  her 


88 


MEMORIAL    OF  ALICE   AND   PHCEBE   GARY. 


bouse  Sabbath  evening  after  Sabbath 
evening,  "just  to  look  upon  her  face." 
Said  one,  "It  grows  more  beautiful 
every  year." 

Alice  was  tall  and  graceful,  with  a 
suggestion  of  majesty  in  her  simple 
mien.  Her  dark  eyes  were  of  a  won 
derful  softness  and  beauty,  with  a  fath 
omless  depth  of  tenderness  in  their  ex 
pression,  which  men  and  even  women 
love.  Yet  there  were  not  wanting  lines 
of  firmness  and  energy  about  the  femi 
nine  mouth,  and  there  was  an  impres 
sion  of  silent  power  pervading  her  very 
gentleness.  Phoebe  had  all  the  soft 
contours,  the  complexion,  hair,  and 
eyes,  of  a  Spanish  woman.  And  with 
her  sparkle  and  repartee  she  had  be 
sides  a  Spaniard's  languors.  She  was 
slightly  below  ordinary  height  ;  full, 
without  being  heavy  in  outline.  The 
prevailing  expression  of  Alice's  coun 
tenance  was  one  of  sadness,  pervaded 
with  extreme  sweetness  ;  but  Phoebe's 
black  eyes  sparkled  as  she  talked,  and 
even  when  her  face  was  in  repose 
there  was  upon  it  the  trace  of  a  smile. 
Alice  dressed  with  rich  simplicity,  and 
in  the  most  resplendent  drawing-room 
would  have  been  noticed  as  one  of  the 
most  elegant  women  in  it.  Phoebe,  in 
her  more  animated  moments,  would 
have  been  marked  for  her  dark,  brill 
iant  beauty,  and  would  have  reminded 
you  of  an  Oriental  princess  in  the 
warm  brightness  of  her  colors,  and  the 
distinctive  character  of  her  ornaments. 

The  mental  contrasts  of  the  sisters 
were  as  marked  as  their  physical. 
Alike  in  tastes  and  aspiration,  they 
were  unlike  in  temperament,  in  their 
habit  of  thought  and  of  action.  Each, 
in  her  own  way,  out  of  her  own  life, 
sacrificed  much  to  the  other,  —  how 
much  only  God  and  their  own  souls 
knew.  Out  of  this  mutual  sacrifice 
was  welded  a  bond  stronger  and  closer 
than  many  sisters  know  ;  through  their 
life-long  association,  their  sympathy, 
their  very  sisterhood,  it  drew  them 
nearer  and  nearer  together  to  the  end. 
It  produced  at  last  an  identification  of 
existence  such  as  we  see  where  the 
natures  of  husband  and  wife  have  be 
come  perfectly  assimilated  because 
their  life  and  fate  are  one. 

Notwithstanding  the  unity  of  their 
pursuits,  the  identity  of  their  interests, 


their  utter  devotion  to  each  other,  out 
side  of  this  dual  life  each  sister  lived 
distinctly  and  separately  her  own  ex 
istence.  Each  respected  absolutely 
the  personal  peculiarities  of  the  other, 
and  never  consciously  intruded  upon 
them.  Each  thought  and  wrought  in 
as  absolute  solitude  as  if  she  alone 
were  in  the  house.  The  results  of  the 
labor  they  shared  together ;  but  not 
the  labor.  Each  respected  so  much 
the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  other's  mind, 
that  neither  ever  thought  of  criticising 
the  other's  work.  If  one  offered  a  sug 
gestion,  it  was  because  the  other  re 
quested  her  to  do  so. 

Both  had  ways  that  at  times  were  not 
altogether  satisfactory  to  the  other. 
Each  accepted  them  as  a  part  of  the 
cross  that  she  must  bear  for  her  sister, 
and  she  did  not  complain,  nor  did  it 
cause  any  bitterness.  For  example, 
Alice's  tireless  energy  and  unswerving 
will  at  times  wearied  Phoebe,  though 
she  found  in  both  the  staff  and  support 
of  her  life,  while  Phoebe's  inertia  was 
a  much  more  perpetual  trial  to  Alice. 
She  recognized  the  fact  that  she  could 
not  make  the  active  law  of  her  own 
being  that  of  Phoebe's,  and  acquiesced, 
but  not  always  with  inward  resigna 
tion. 

According  to  Phoebe's  own  testimo 
ny,  Alice  used  mind  and  body  unspar 
ingly  whenever  she  could  compel  them 
to  obey  her  will.  With  all  a  woman's 
softness,  she  met  the  responsibilities 
of  life  as  a  man  meets  them.  She 
never  stopped  to  inquire  whether  she 
felt  like  doing  a  task,  no  matter  how 
disagreeable  it  might  be.  If  it  was  to 
be  done  she  did  it,  and  without  words 
and  without  delay. 

It  was  Phoebe,  the  protected  and  shel 
tered  one,  who  consulted  her  moods. 
Perhaps  this  was  scarcely  a  fault ;  she 
obeyed  the  law  of  her  being  and  the 
law  of  her  life  in  this.  Had  she  com 
pelled  her  powers  to  produce  a  given 
amount  of  work,  as  Alice  did,  without 
doubt  it  would  proportionately  have  de 
preciated  in  quality.  Absolute  neces 
sity  did  not  force  her  to  such  toil, 
therefore  she  instinctively  avoided  it. 
Beside,  a  most  touching  humility  al 
ways  held  her  back  from  testing  her 
powers  to  the  utmost. 

The    same     self  -  depreciation    was 


THE    GARY  SISTERS. 


strong  in  Alice  ;  but  her  aspiration, 
her  will  to  do  her  best,  with  the  im 
pelling  demands  of  life,  were  so  much 
stronger,  that  neither  brain  nor  hand 
were  ever  for  a  moment  idle.  She 
placed  the  highest  estimate  on  Phoe 
be's  brilliant  wit,  clear  vision,  and  apt 
and  shrewd  suggestiveness,  as  well  as 
on  her  poetical  genius.  The  former, 
especially,  she  thought  a  mine  un- 
worked,  and  for  years  urged  and  en 
couraged  Phoebe  to  test  the  growing 
opportunities  of  correspondence  of 
critical  and  editorial  writing  which 
journalism  opened  to  women.  But 
Phoebe  was  not  to  be  persuaded  even 
by  the  necessities  of  the  occasion,  or 
the  eloquence  of  her  sister.  She  con 
tinued  to  coruscate  in  the  little  parlor, 
to  fill  the  air  with  the  flashes  of  a  most 
exquisite  wit,  but  she  never  turned  it 
to  any  material  account.  When  a 
song  came  singing  through  her  brain, 
she  would  leave  her  sewing,  or  her 
novel,  and  go  and  write  it  down.  Yet 
for  a  period  of  eight  years  she  wrote 
comparatively  nothing.  In  referring 
to  this  period  she  often  said :  "  I 
thought  that  I  should  never  write 
again.  I  had  nothing  to  say,  and  felt 
an  unutterable  heaviness.  If  I  did 
write  anything  it  did  not  seem  to  me 
worth  copying,  much  less  reading." 
The  causes  of  this  mental  barrenness 
were  probably  purely  physical  and 
temperamental.  It  is  doubtful  if  in 
any  effective  degree  it  was  in  her  power 
to  help  it. 

No  less  those  were  years  in  which 
the  burden  of  life  weighed  sorely  and 
heavily  on  Alice.  Often  she  felt  her 
self  stagger  under  the  weights  of  life. 
She  felt  her  strength  failing.  No  less 
she  knew  that  she  must  carry  them 
alone,  that  there  was  no  one  on  earth 
to  help  her. 

Phoebe  outlived  that  period  of  men 
tal  inactivity.  The  war  seemed  to 
arouse  and  quicken  all  her  nature. 
For  the  last  five  years  of  her  life  her 
genius  was  almost  as  productive  as 
that  of  Alice.  Her  very  best  poems, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  were  written 
within  that  peroiod.  To  the  delight  of 
her  friends  and  the  joy  of  her  sister, 
her  powers  seemed  continually  to  in 
crease,  her  song  to  grow  sweeter  and 
fuller  to  the  end.  Had  she  lived  ten 


years  longer,  without  a  doubt  she  would 
have  risen  to  a  height  never  attained 
by  her  before.  Believing  her  sister 
always  with  her,  it  would  have  been  as 
if  the  song  of  Alice  was  added  to  her 
own. 

Through  nearly  all  their  lives  Phoebe 
had  materially,  intellectually,  and  spir 
itually  depended  upon  Alice.  Though 
Phoebe  had  the  more  robust  health,  it 
was  Alice  who  had  the  more  resolute 
spirit.  Over  all  the  long  and  toilsome 
road  from  poverty  to  competence,  it 
was  Phoebe  who  leaned  on  Alice.  It 
was  Alice  who  bore  the  burden  and 
heat  of  the  day,  and  who  smoothed  the 
paths  for  her  sister's  feet.  Not  that  she 
was  idle,  and  did  nothing  ;  but  she 
paused,  and  doubted,  and  waited  by 
the  way.  Tears  dimmed  the  lovely 
eyes  of  the  elder,  how  often  ;  pain  and 
weariness  would  have  stayed  her  steps, 
but  her  high  heart  said,  "  Nay."  Ne 
cessity  said,  "  You  must  not  !  "  She 
went  on,  she  led  her  sister  on,  till  they 
came  to  a  height  where  both  stood  side 
by  side.  Then,  the  painful  journey 
done,  in  the  evening  shadow  it  was 
Alice  who  leaned  on  Phoebe,  and  lean 
ing  thus,  she  died. 

But  Phoebe  lived  through  and  for 
Alice  so  long,  when  she  looked  and 
saw  her  no  more,  the  very  impulse  and 
power  to  live  were  gone.  She  sank 
and  died,  because  she  could  not  live 
on,  in  a  world  where  her  sister  was  not. 

Turning  to  the  right,  after  entering 
Greenwood,  a  short  walk  brings  you  to 
an  embowered  slope,  crowned  by  a 
grassy  lot,  on  whose  lowly  gate  is  in 
scribed  the  one  word  :  "  Gary." 

Within,  side  by  side,  are  three 
mounds,  of  equal  length,  unmarked 
save  by  one  low  head-stone,  whose 
velvet  turf  holds,  a  few  withering 
flowers,  the  only  token  of  the  loving 
remembrance  of  the  living  for  the 
sleepers  who  rest  below.  Elmina, 
Phoebe,  and  Alice  !  names  precious  to 
womanhood,  names  worthy  of  the  ten- 
derest  love  of  the  highest  manhood. 
Far  from  their  kindred,  here  these  sis 
ters  three  sleep  at  last  together.  Here 
the  pilgrim  feet  are  stayed.  Here  the 
eager  brains  and  tireless  hands  at  last 
are  idle.  Here  the  passionate,  tender, 
yearning  hearts  are  forever  still.  On 
one  side  you  hear  the  murmur  and 


MEMORIAL   OF  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE   CARY. 


moan  of  the  great  metropolis,  the  tur 
moil  and  anguish  of  human  life  never 
stilled.  On  the  other,  Ocean  chants  a 
perpetual  requiem.  As  you  listen,  you 
are  sure  that  it  holds  that  in  its  call 
which  is  eternal ;  sure  that  there  is 
that  in  you  which  can  never  end  ;  sure 
that  the  love,  and  devotion,  and  divine 
intelligence  of  the  women  whom  you 
mourn,  still  survive  ;  that  they  whom 
you  loved  in  all  the  infirmity  'of  their 
human  state,  await  you  now,  redeemed, 
and  glorified,  and  immortal. 

The  autumn  leaves  fall  on  their 
graves  in  tender  showers.  The  spring 
leaves,  the  summer  flowers,  bud  and 
bloom  around  them  in  beauty  ever  re 
newed.  The  air  is  penetrated  with 
sunshine  and  with  song.  The  place  is 
full  of  the  brightness  that  Phoebe  loved, 
full  of  the  soothing  shade  and  peace  so 
dear  to  Elmina  and  to  Alice. 

Farewell,  beloved  trinity  ! 

The  words  which  Whittier  wrote  for 
Alice,  this  hour  belong  alike  to  each 
one  :  — 

"  God  giveth  quietness  at  last ! 
The  common  way  that  all  have  passed 
She  went,  with  mortal  yearnings  fond, 
To  fuller  life  and  love  beyond. 

"  Fold  the  rapt  soul  in  your  embrace, 
My  dear  ones  !     Give  the  singer  place. 
To  you,  to  her  —  I  know  not  where  — 
I  lift  the  silence  of  a  prayer. 

"  For  only  thus  our  own  we  find  ; 
The  gone  before,  the  left  behind, 
All  mortal  voices  die  between  ; 
The  unheard  reaches  the  unseen. 

"  Again  the  blackbirds  sing  :  the  streams 
Wake,  laughing,  from  their  winter  dreams, 


And  tremble  in  the  April  showers 
The  tassels  of  the  maple  flowers. 

"  But  not  for  her  has  spring  renewed, 
The  sweet  surprises  of  the  wood  ; 
And  bird  and  flowers  are  lost  to  her 
Who  was  their  best  interpreter  ! 

"  What  to  shut  eyes  has  God  revealed  ? 
What  hear  the  ears  that  death  had  sealed  ? 
What  undreamed  beauty  passing  show, 
Requites  the  loss  of  all  we  know  ? 

"  O  silent  land,  to  which  we  move, 
Enough  if  there  alone  be  love  ; 
|  And  mortal  need  can  ne'er  outgrow 
What  it  is  waiting  to  bestow  ! 

"  O  white  soul !  from  that  far-off  shore 
Float  some  sweet  song  the  waters  o'er  ; 
Our  faith  confirm,  our  fears  dispel, 
With  the  old  voice  we  loved  so  well  !  " 

In  the  days  of  her  early  youth  Phcebe 
wrote  :  — 

"  Let  your  warm  hands  chill  not,  slip 
ping 

From  my  fingers'  icy  tips  ; 
Be  there  not  the  touch  of  kisses 

On  my  uncaressing  lips  ; 
Let  no  kindness  see  "the  blindness 

Of  my  eyes'  last,  long  eclipse. 
Never  think  of  me  as  lying 

By  the  dismal  mould  o'erspread  : 
But  about  the  soft  white  pillow 

Folded  underneath  my  head, 
And  of  summer  flowers  weaving 

Their  rich  broidery  o'er  my  bed. 
Think  of  the  immortal  spirit 

Living  up  above  the  sky, 
And  of  how  my  face  is  wearing 

Light  of  immortality ; 
Looking  earthward,  is  o'erleaning 

The  white  bastion  of  the  sky." 


ALICE  GARY'S  POEMS. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

APOLOGY. 
[Prefacing  the  volume  of  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and  Hymns  published  in  1865. 

O  EVER  true  and  comfortable  mate, 

For  whom  my  love  outwore  the  fleeting  red 
Of  my  young  cheeks,  nor  did  one  jot  abate, 

I  pray  thee  now,  as  by  a  dying  bed, 
Wait  yet  a  little  longer  !     Hear  me  tell 

How  much  my  will  transcends  my  feeble  powers  : 

As  one  with  blind  eyes  feeling  out  in  flowers 
Their  tender  hues,  or,  with  no  skill  to  spell 

His  poor,  poor  name,  but  only  makes  his  mark, 

And  guesses  at  the  sunshine  iii  the  dark, 
So  I  have  been.     A  sense  of  things  divine 

Lying  broad  above  the  little  things  I  knew, 
The  while  I  made  my  poems  for  a  sign 

Of  the  great  melodies  I  felt  were  true. 
Pray  thee  accept  my  sad  apology, 

Sweet  master,  mending,  as  we  go  along, 
^  My  homely  fortunes  with  a  thread  of  song, 
That  all  my  years  harmoniously  may  run  ; 

Less  by  the  tasks  accomplished  judging  me, 
Than  by  the  better  things  I  would  have  done. 

I  would  not  lose  thy  gracious  company 
Out  of  my  house  and  heart  for  all  the  good 
Besides,  that  ever  comes  to  womanhood,  — 

And  this  is  much  :  I  know  what  I  resign, 

But  at  that  great  price  I  would  have  thee  mine. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER. 

INTO  the  house  ran  Lettice, 
With  hair  so  long  and  so  bright, 

Crying,  "  Mother  !  Johnny  has  'listed  ! 
He^has  'listed  into  the  fight  !  " 

"  Don't  talk  so  wild,  little  Lettice  !  " 
And    she    smoothed    her    darling's 

brow, 
"  'T  is  true  !   you  '11  see  —  as  true  can 

be- 
He  told  me  so  just  now  !  " 

"  Ah,  that 's  a  likely  story  ! 

Why,  darling,  don't  you  see, 
If  Johnny  had  'listed  into  the  war 

He  would  tell  your  father  and  me  !  " 

"  But  he  is  going  to  go,  mother, 
Whether  it 's  right  or  wrong  ; 

He  is  thinking  of  it  all  the  while. 
And  he  won't  be  with  us  long." 

"  Our  Johnny  going  to  go  to  the  war  !  " 
"  Aye,  aye,  and  the  time  is  near  ; 

He  said,  when  the  corn  was  once  in  the 

ground, 
We  could  n't  keep  him  here  !  " 

"  Hush,  child  !  your  brother  Johnny- 
Meant  to  give  you  a  fright." 

"  Mother,  he  '11  go,  —  I  tell  you  I  know 
He  's  listed  into  the  fight  ! 

"  Plucking  a  rose  from  the  bush,  he 

said, 

Before  its  leaves  were  black 
He  'd  have  have  a  soldier's  cap  on  his 

head, 
And  a  knapsack  on  his  back  !  " 


"  A  dream  !  a  dream  !  little  Lettice, 

A  wild  dream  of  the  night ; 
Go  find  and  fetch  your  brother  in, 


And  he  will  set  us  right.' 


So  out  of  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

Calling  near  and  far,  — 
"  Johnny,  tell  me,  and  tell  me  true, 

Are  you  going  to  go  to  the  war  ? " 

At  last  she  came  and  found  him 

In  the  dusty  cattle-close, 
Whistling  Hail  Columbia, 

And  beating  time  with  his  rose. 

The  rose  he  broke  from  the  bush,  when 

he  said, 

Before  its  leaves  were  black 
He  'd    have    a    soldier's    cap   on    his 

head, 
And  a  knapsack  on  his  back. 

Then  all  in  gay  mock-anger, 
He  plucked  her  by  the  sleeve, 

Saying,  "  Dear  little,  sweet  little  rebel, 
I  am  going,  by  your  leave  !  " 

"  O  Johnny  !  Johnny  !  "  low  he  stooped, 
And  kissed  her  wet  cheeks  dry, 

And  took  her  golden  head  in  his  hands, 
And  told  her  he  would  not  die. 

"  But,  Letty,  if  anything  happens  — 
There  won't!"  and  he  spoke  more 

low  — 
"  But  if  anything  should,  you  must  be 

twice  as  good 
As  you  are,  to  mother,  you  know  ! 

"  Not  but  that  you  are  good,  Letty, 
As  good  as  you  can  be  ; 


94 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


But  then  you  know  it  might  be  so, 
You  'd  have  to  be  good  for  me  !  " 

So  straight  to  the  house  they  went,  his 
cheeks 

Flushing  under  his  brim  ; 
And  his  two  broad-shouldered  oxen 

Turned  their  great  eyes  after  him. 

That  night  in  the  good  old  farmsteud 

Was  many  a  sob  of  pain  ; 
"  O  Johnny,  stay  !  if  you  go  away, 

It  will  never  be  home  again  !  " 

But  Time  its  still  sure  comfort  lent, 

Crawling,  crawling  past, 
And  Johnny's  gallant  regiment 

Was  going  to  march  at  last. 

And  steadying  up  her  stricken  soul, 

The  mother  turned  about, 
Took    what   was    Johnny's    from    the 
drawer 

And  shook  the  rose-leaves  out ; 

And   brought   the    cap   she  had  lined 

with  silk, 

And  strapped  his  knapsack  on, 
And   her  heart,  though    it    bled,  was 

proud  as  she  said, 
"  You  would  hardly  know  our  John  !  " 

Another  year,  and  the  roses 

Were   bright    on    the    bush   by   the 

door  ; 
And  into  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

Her  pale  cheeks  glad  once  more. 

"  O  mother  !  news  has  come  to-day  ! 

'T  is  flying  all  about ; 
Our  John's  regiment,  they  say, 

Is  all  to  be  mustered  out ! 

"  O  mother,  you  must  buy  me  a  dress, 
And  ribbons  of  blue  and  buff ! 

Oh  what  shall  we  say  to  make  the  day 
Merry  and  mad  enough  ! 

"  The  brightest  day  that  ever  yet 
The  sweet  sun  looked  upon, 

When  we  shall  be  dressed  in  our  very 

best, 
To  welcome  home  our  John  !  " 

So  up  and  down  ran  Lettice, 
And  all  the  farmstead  rung 

With  where  he  would  set  his  bayonet, 
And  where  his  cap  would  be  hung  ! 


And  the  mother  put  away  her  look 

Of  weary,  waiting  gloom, 
And  a  feast  was  set  and  the  neighbors 
met 

To  welcome  Johnny  home. 

The  good  old  father  silent  stood, 
With  his  eager  face  at  the  pane, 

And  Lettice  was  out  at  the  door  to  shout 
When  she  saw  him  in  the  lane. 

And  by  and  by,  a  soldier 

Came  o'er  the  grassy  hill ; 
It  was  not  he  they  looked  to  see, 

And  every  heart  stood  still. 

He  brought  them  Johnny's  knapsack, 
'T  was  all  that  he  could  do, 

And  the  cap  he  had  worn  begrimed  and 

torn, 
With  a  bullet-hole  straight  through  ! 


RUTH   AND   I. 

IT  was  not  day,  and  was  not  night ; 
The  eve  had  just  begun  to  light, 

Along  the  lovely  west, 
His  golden  candles,  one  by  one, 
And  girded  up  with  clouds,  the  sun 

Was  sunken  to  his  rest. 

Between  the  furrows,  brown  and  dry, 
We  walked  in  silence  —  Ruth  and  I  ; 

We  two  had  been,  since  morn 
Began  her  tender  tunes  to  beat 
Upon  the  May-leaves  young  and  sweet, 

Together,  planting  corn. 

Homeward  the  evening  cattle  went 
In  patient,  slow,  full-fed  content, 

Led  by  a  rough,  strong  steer, 
His  forehead  all  with  burs  thick  set, 
His  horns  of  silver  tipt  with  jet, 

And  shapeless  shadow,  near. 

With  timid,  half-reluctant  grace, 
Like  lovers  in  some  favored  place, 

The  light  and  darkness  met, 
And  the  air  trembled,  near  and  far, 
With  many  a  little  tuneful  jar 

Of  milk-pans  being  set. 

We   heard   the    house-maids   at    their 

cares, 

Pouring  their  hearts  out  unawares 
In  some  sad  poet's  ditty, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


95 


Arid-heard  the  fluttering  echoes  round 
Reply  like  souls  all  softly  drowned 
In  heavenly  love  and  pity. 

All  sights,  all  sounds  in  earth  and  air 
Were  of  the  sweetest ;  everywhere 

Ear,  eye,  and  heart  were  fed  ; 
The    grass   with    one    small    burning 

flower 
Blushed  bright,  as  if  the  elves  that  hour 

Their  coats  thereon  had  spread. 

One    moment,    where    we    crossed    the 

brook 
Two  little  sunburnt  hands  I  took,  — 

Why  did  I  let  them  go  ? 
I  've  been  since  then  in  many  a  land, 
Touched,  held,   kissed   many  a  fairer 

hand, 
But  none  that  thrilled  me  so. 

Why,  when  the   bliss    Heaven  for  us 

made 
Is  in  our  very  bosoms  laid, 

Should  we  be  all  unmoved. 
And  walk,  as  now  do  Ruth  and  I, 
'Twixt  th'  world's  furrows,  brown  and 

dry, 
Unloving  and  unloved  ? 


HAGEN    WALDER. 

THE  day,  with  a  cold,  dead  color 

Was  rising  over  the  hill, 
When  little  Hagen  Walder 

Went  out  to  grind  in  th'  mill. 

All  vainly  the  light  in  zigzags 
Fell  through  the  frozen  leaves, 

And  like  a  broidery  of  gold 
Shone  on  his  ragged  sleeves. 

No  mother  had  he  to  brighten 
His  cheek  with  a  kiss,  and  say, 

"  'T  is  cold  for  my  little  Hagen 
To  grind  in  the  mill  to-day." 

And  that  was  why  the  north  winds 
Seemed  all  in  his  path  to  meet, 

And  why  the  stones  were  so  cruel 
And  sharp  beneath  his  feet. 

And  that  was  why  he  hid  his  face 

So  oft,  despite  his  will, 
Against  the  necks  of  the  oxen 

That  turned  the  wheel  of  th'  mill. 


And  that  was  why  the  tear-drops 

So  oft  did  fall  and  stand 
Upon  their  silken  coats  that  were 

As  white  as  a  lady's  hand. 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Looked  at  the  sea  and  th'  sky, 

And  wished  that  he  were  a  salmon, 
In  the  silver  waves  to  lie  ; 

And  wished  that  he  were  an  eagle, 
Away  through  th'  air  to  soar, 

WThere  never  the  groaning  mill-wheel 
Might  vex  him  any  more  : 

And  wished  that  he  were  a  pirate, 
To  burn  some  cottage  down, 

And  warm  himself  ;  or  that  he  were 
A  market-lad  in  the  town, 

With   bowls    of  bright   red   strawber 
ries 

Shining  on  his  stall, 
And  that  some  gentle  maiden 

Would  come  and  buy  them  all ! 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Passed,  as  the  story  says, 
Through  dreams,  as  through  a  golden 
gate,_  _ 

Into  realities. 

And  when  the  years  changed  places, 
Like  the  billows,  bright  and  still, 

In  th'  ocean,  Hagen  Walder 
Was  the  master  of  the  mill. 

And  all  his  bowls  of  strawberries 

Were  not  so  fine  a  show 
As  are  his  boys  and  girls  at  church 

Sitting  in  a  row  ! 


OUR   SCHOOL-MASTER. 

WE  used  to  think  it  was  so  queer 
To  see  him,  in  his  thin  gray  hair, 

Sticking  our  quills  behind" his  ear, 
And    straight   forgetting    they   were 
there. 

We  used  to  think  it  was  so  strange 
That  he  should   twist  such  hair  to 

curls, 
And   that   his  wrinkled    cheek   should 

change 
Its  color  like  a  bashful  girl's. 


96 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Our  foolish  mirth  defied  all  rule, 
As  glances,  each  of  each,  we  stole. 

The  morning  that  he  wore  to  school 
A  rose-bud  in  his  button-hole. 

And  very  sagely  we  agreed 

That    such      a    dunce     was     never 

known  — 
Fifty  !  and  trying  still  to  read 

Love-verses  with  a  tender  tone  ! 

No  joyous  smile  would  ever  stir 
Our  sober  looks,  we  often  said. 

If  we  were  but  a  School-master, 

And  had,  withal,  his  old  white  head. 

One  day  we  cut  his  knotty  staff 
Nearly  in  two,  and  each  and  all 

Of  us  declared  that  we  should  laugh 
To  see  it  break  and  let  him  fall. 

Upon  his  old  pine  desk  we  drew 
His  picture  —  pitiful  to  see, 

Wrinkled   and   bald  — half    false,  half 

true, 
And  wrote  beneath  it,  Twenty-three  ! 

Next  day  came  eight  o'clock  and  nine, 
But  he  came  not  :  our  pulses  quick 

With  play,  we  said  it  would  be  fine 
If  the  old  School-master  were  sick. 

And  still  the  beech-trees  bear  the  scars 
Of   wounds  which  we  that  morning 

made, 

Cutting  their  silvery  bark  to  stars 
Whereon  to  count  the  games  we  played. 

At  last,  as  tired  as  we  could  be, 
Upon  a  clay-bank,  strangely  still, 

We  sat  down  in  a  row  to  see 

His  worn-out  hat  come  up  the  hill. 

'T  was  hanging  up  at  home  —  a  quill 
Notched  "down,  and  sticking  in  the 
band, 

And  leaned  against  his  arm  chair,  still 
His  staff  was  waiting  for  his  hand. 

Across  his  feet  his  threadbare  coat 
Was  lying,  stuffed  with  many  a  roll 

Of  "  copy-plates,"  and,  sad  to  note, 
A  dead  rose  in  the  button-hole. 

And  he  no  more  might  take  his  place 
Our  lessons  and  our  lives  to  plan  : 

Cold  Death  had  kissed  the  wrinkled  face 
Of  that  most  gentle  gentleman. 


Ah  me,  what  bitter  tears  made  blind 
Our  young  eyes,  for  our  thoughtless 
sin, 

As  two  and  two  we  walked  behind 
The  long  black  coffin  he  was  in. 

And  all,  sad  women  now,  and  men 
With  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs,  can  see 

How  he  might  wear  a  rose-bud  then, 
And  read  love-verses  tenderly. 


THE  GRAY   SWAN. 

"On  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 

Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu, 

A-sailing  with  your  ship  ?  " 

The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew,  — 

"  Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu  ?  " 
He  said,  with  trembling  lip,  — 
"  What  little  lad  ?  what  ship  ?  " 

"What  little  lad  !  as  if  there  could  be 

Another  such  an  one  as  he  ! 

What  little  lad,  do  you  say  ? 

Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 

The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  knee  ! 
It  was  just  the  other  day 
The  Gray  Swan  sailed  away." 

"  The  other  day  ?  "  the  sailor's  eyes 

Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise,  — 
"  The  other  clay  ?  the  Swan  ?  "  . 

His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,   here  in  the  cupboard 

lies 

The  jacket  he  had  on." 
"  And  so  your  lad  is  gone  ?  " 

"Gone    with    the    Swan."     "And  did 

she  stand 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the 

sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir  ?" 
"  Why,  to  be  sure  !   I  've  seen  from  the 

land, 

Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 
The  wild  sea  kissing  her, — 
A  sight  to  remember,  sir." 

"  But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 
All  this  was  twenty  years  ago  ? 

I  stood  on  the  Gray  Swarfs  deck, 
And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 
Taking  it  off,  as  it  might  be,  so  ! 
The  kerchief  from  your  neck," 
"  Aye,  and  he  '11  bring  it  back  !  " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


97 


"  And  did  the  little  lawless  lad 
That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you 
sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  Swan's  crew  ?  " 
"  Lawless  !  the  man  is  going  mad  ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had,  — 

Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew  ! 

What  would  you  have  him  do  ? " 

"And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word,  nor  made  you 

sign 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  " 
"  Hold  !  if  't  was  wrong,  the  wrong  is 

mine  ; 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine, 

And    could     he    write    from    the 


grave  ? 

Tut,      man  ! 

have  ?  " 


what     would     you 


"  Gone   twenty  years,  —  a   long,    long 

cruise, — 
'T    was     wicked    thus     your   love    to 

abuse ; 

But  if  the  lad  still  live, 
And  come  back  home,  think  you  you 

can 

Forgive  him  ?  "  —  "  Miserable  man, 
You  're   mad   as    the    sea,  —  you 

rave,  — 
What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  " 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief.     She  was  wild. 

"  My  God  !  my  Father  !  is  it  true  ? 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu  ! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child  ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child  !  " 


THE    WASHERWOMAN. 

AT  the  north  end  of  our  village  stands, 
With  gable  black  and  high, 

A  weather-beaten  house, —  I  've  stopt 
Often  as  I  went  by, 

To  see  the  strip  of  bleaching  grass 
Slipped  brightly  in  between 

The  long  straight  rows  of  hollyhocks, 
And  currant-bushes  green  ; 

The  clumsy  bench  beside  the  door, 

And  oaken  washing-tub, 
Where  poor  old  Rachel  used  to  stand, 

And  rub,  and  rub,  and  rub  ! 

7 


Her  blue-checked  apron  speckled  with 

The  suds,  so  snowy  white  ; 
From  morning  when  I  went  to  school 

Till  I  went  home  at  night, 

She  never  took  her  sunburnt  arms 

Out  of  the  steaming  tub  : 
We  used  to  say  't  was  weary  work 

Only  to  hear  her  rub. 

With  sleeves  stretched   straight  upon 
the  grass 

The  washed  shirts  used  to  lie  ; 
By  dozens  I  have  counted  them 

Some  days,  as  I  went  by. 

The  burly  blacksmith,  battering  at 

His  red-hot  iron  bands, 
Would  make  a  joke  of  wishing  that 

He  had  old  Rachel's  hands  ! 

And    when    the     sharp     and    ringing 
strokes 

Had  doubled  up  his  shoe, 
As  crooked  as  old  Rachel's  back, 

He  used  to  say  't  would  do. 

And  every  village  housewife,  with 
A  conscience  clear  and  light, 

Would    send  for    her    to    come    and 

wash 
An  hour  or  two  at  night  ! 

Her  hair  beneath  her  cotton  cap 
Grew  silver  white  and  thin  ; 

And  the  deep  furrows  in  her  face 
Ploughed  all  the  roses  in. 

Yet  patiently  she  kept  at  work,  — 
We  school-girls  used  to  say 

The  smile  about  her  sunken  mouth 
Would  quite  go  out  some  day. 

Nobody  ever  thought  the  spark 
That  in  her  sad  eyes  shone, 

Burned  outward  from  a  living  soul 
Immortal  as  their  own. 

And     though    a    tender    flush    some 
times 

Into  her  cheek  would  start, 
Nobody  dreamed  old  Rachel  had 

A  woman's  loving  heart  ! 

At  last  she  left  her  heaps  of  clothes 

One  quiet  autumn  day, 
And  stript  from  off  her  sunburnt  arms. 

The  weary  suds  away  ; 


98 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


That  night  within  her  moonlit  door 

She  sat  alone,  —  her  chin 
Sunk  in  her  hand,  —  her  eyes  shut  up, 

As  if  to  look  within. 

Her  face  uplifted  to  the  star 
That  stood  so  sweet  and  low 

Against  old  crazy  Peter's  house  — 
(He  loved  her  long  ago  !) 

Her  heart  had  worn  her  body  to 

A  handful  of  poor  dust,  — 
Her  soul  was  gone  to  be  arrayed 

In  marriage-robes,  T  trust.  ' 


GROWING   RICH. 

AND  why  are  you  pale,  my  Nora  ? 

And  why  do'  you  sigh  and  fret  ? 
The  black  ewe  had  twin  lambs  to-day, 

And  we  shall  be  rich  folk  yet. 

Do  you  mind  the  clover-ridge,  Nora, 
That  slopes  to  the  crooked  stream  ? 

The   brown   cow   pastured   there   this 

week, 
And  her  milk  is  sweet  as  cream. 

The  old  gray  mare  that  last  year  fell 

As  thin  as  any  ghost, 
Is  getting  a  new  white  coat,  and  looks 

As  young  as  her  colt,  almost. 

And  if  the  corn -land  should  do  well, 
And  so,  please  God,  it  may, 

I  '11  buy  the  white-faced  bull  a  bell, 
To  make  the  meadows  gay. 

I  know  we  are  growing  rich,  Johnny, 

And  that  is  why  I  fret, 
For  my  little  brother  Phil  is  down 

In  the  dismal  coal-pit  yet. 

And   when    the   sunshine   sets   in   th' 
corn, 

The  tassels  green  and  gay, 
It  will  not  touch  my  father's  eyes, 

That  are  going  blind,  they  say. 

But  if  I  were  not  sad  for  him, 

Nor  yet  for  little  Phil, 
Why,  darling  Molly's  hand,  last  year, 

Was  cut  off  in  the  mill. 

And   so,    nor  mare  nor  brown  milch- 
cow, 
Nor  lambs  can  joy  impart, 


For  the  blind  old  man  and  th'  mill  and 

mine 
Are  all  upon  my  heart. 


SANDY  MACLEOD. 

WHEN  I  think  of  the  weary  nights  and 

days 

Of  poor,  hard-working  folk,  always 
I  see,  with  his  head  on  his  bosom 

bowed, 
The  luckless  shoemaker,  Sandy  Mac- 

leod. 

Jeering  school-boys  used  to  say 

His    chimney  would    never    be   raked 

away 
By  the   moon,   and   you  by  a  jest  so 

rough 
May   know   that    his    cabin   was    low 

enough. 

Nothing  throve  with  him  ;  his  colt  and 

cow 

Got  their  living,  he  did  n't  know  how,  — 
Yokes  on  their  scraggy  necks  swinging 

about, 
Beating  and  bruising  them  year  in  and 

out. 

Out  at  the  elbow  he  used  to  go,  — 
Alas  for  him  that  he  did  not  know 
The  way  to  make  poverty  regal,  —  not 

he, 
If  such  way  under  the  sun  there  be. 

Sundays  all  day  in  the  door  he  sat, 
A  string  of  withered-up  crape  on  his 

hat, 

The  crown  half  fallen  against  his  head, 
And  half  sewed  in  with  a  shoemaker's 

thread. 

Sometimes  with  his  hard  and  toil-worn 

hand 
He  would  smooth    and  straighten  th' 

faded  band, 

Thinking  perhaps  of  a  little  mound 
Black  with  nettles  the  long  year  round. 

Blacksmith  and  carpenter,  both  were 

poor, 
And  there  was  the  school-master  who, 

to  be  sure, 

Had  seen  rough  weather,  but  after  all 
When  they  met  Sandy  he  went  to  the 

wall. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


99 


His   wife   was    a   lady,    they  used   to 

say, 

Repenting  at  leisure  her  wedding  day, 
And  that  she  was  come  of  a  race  too 

proud 
E'er  to  have  mated  with  Sandy  Mac- 

leod! 

So  fretting  she  sat  from  December  to 

June, 
While  Sandy,  poor  soul,  to  a  funeral 

tune 
Would  beat  out  his  hard,  heavy  leather, 

until 
He  set  himself  up,  and  got  strength  to 

be  still. 

It  was  not  the  full  moon  that  made  it 

so  light 
In  the  poor  little  dwelling  of  Sandy 

one  night, 
It   was    not    the   candles    all   shining 

around,  — 
Ah,  no  !  't  was  the  light  of  the  day  he 

had  found. 


THE  PICTURE-BOOK. 

THE   black  walnut-logs    in   the  chim 
ney 
Made   ruddy  the   house  with   their 

light, 

And  the  pool  in  the  hollow  was  covered 
With  ice  like  a  lid,  —  it  was  night ; 

And  Roslyn  and  I  were  together,  — 
I    know   now  the    pleased    look   he 

wore, 
And  the  shapes  of  the  shadows  that 

checkered 
The  hard  yellow  planks  of  the  floor  ; 

And  how,  when  the  wind  stirred  the 
candle. 

Affrighted  they  ran  from  its  gleams, 
And  crept  up  the  wall  to  the  ceiling 

Of  cedar,  and  hid  by  the  beams. 

There  were  books  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
dusty, 

And  shut,  and  I  see  in  my  mind, 
The  pink-colored  primer  of  pictures 

We  stood  on  our  tiptoes  to  find. 

We  opened  the  leaves  where  a  camel 
Was  seen  on  a  sand-covered  track, 


A-snufftng  for  water,  and  bearing 
A  great  bag  of  gold  on  his  back  ; 

And  talked  of  the  free  flowing  rivers 
A  tithe  of  his  burden  would  buy, 

And  said,  when  the  lips  of  the  sunshine 
Had  sucked  his  last  water-skin  dry  ; 

With  thick  breath  and  mouth  gaping 
open, 

And  red  eyes  a-strain  in  his  head, 
His  bones  would  push  out  as  if  buzzards 

Had  picked  him  before  he  was  dead  ! 

Then  turned  the  leaf  over,  and  finding 
A  palace  that  banners  made  gay, 

Forgot  the  bright  splendor  of  roses 
That  shone  through  our  windows  in 
May  ; 

And  sighed  for  the  great  be'ds  of  princes, 
While  pillows  for  him  and  for  me 

Lay  soft  among  ripples  of  ruffles 
As  sweet  and  as  white  as  could  be. 

And  sighed  for  their  valleys,  forgetting 
How  warmly  the  morning  sun  kissed 

Our  hills,  as  they  shrugged  their  green 

shoulders 
Above  the  white  sheets  of  the  mist. 

Their  carpets  of  dyed  wool  were  softer, 
We  said,  than  the  planks  of  our  floor, 

Forgetting  the  flowers  that  in  summer 
Spread  out  their  gold  mats  at  our  door. 

The  storm  spit  its  wrath  in  the  chimney, 
And  blew  the  cold  ashes  aside, 

And  only  one  poor  little  faggot 
Hung  out  its  red  tongue  as  it  died, 

When  Roslyn  and  I  through  the  dark 
ness 

Crept  off  to  our  shivering  beds, 
A  thousand  vague  fancies  and  wishes 

Still  wildly  astir  in  our  heads  : 

Not  guessing  that  we,  too,  were  straying 
In  thought  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

Like  the  camel  a-dying  for  water, 
And  bearing  the  gold  on  his  back. 


A  WALK  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

I  WALKED  from  our  wild  north  country 

once, 
In  a  driving  storm  of  snow ; 


100 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Forty  and  seven  miles  in  a  day  — 
You  smile,  —  do  you  think  it  slow  ? 

You  would  n't  if  ever  you  had  ploughed 
Through  a  storm  like  that,  I  trow. 

There  was  n't  a  cloud  as  big  as  my 

hand, 

The  summer  before,  in  the  sky  ; 
The  grass  in  th'  meadows  was  ground 

to  dust, 

The  springs  and  wells  went  dry ; 
We  must  have  corn,  and  three  stout  men 
Were  picked  to  go  and  buy. 

Well,  I  was  one  ;  two  bags  I  swung 

Across  my  shoulder,  so  ! 
And  kissed  my  wife  and  boys,  —  their 
eyes 

Were  blind  to  see  me  go. 
'T  was  a  bitter  day,  and  just  as  th'  sun 

Went  down,  we  met  the  snow ! 

At  first  we  whistled  and  laughed  and 

sung, 

Our  blood  so  nimbly  stirred  ; 
But  as  the  snow-clogs  dragged  at  our 

feet, 

And  the  air  grew  black  and  blurred, 
We    walked    together    for    miles   and 

miles, 
And  did  not  speak  a  word  ! 

I  never  saw  a  wilder  storm  : 
It  blew  and  beat  with  a  will ; 

Beside  me,  like  two  men  of  sleet, 
Walked  my  two  mates,  until 

They  fell  asleep  in  their  armor  of  ice, 
And  both  of  them  stood  still. 

I  knew  that  they  were  warm  enough, 

And  yet  I  could  not  bear 
To   strip  them  of   their  cloaks  ;  their 
eyes 

Were  open  and  a-stare  ; 
And  so  I  laid  their  hands  across 

Their  breasts,  and  left  them  there. 

And  ran,  —  O  Lord,  I  cannot  tell 

How  fast !  in  my  dismay 
I  thought  the  fences  and  the  trees  — 

The  cattle,  where  they  lay 
So  black  against  their  stacks  of  snow  — 

All  swam  the  other  way  ! 

And  when  at  dawn  I  saw  a  hut, 
With  smoke  upcurling  wide, 

I  thought  it  must  have  been  my  mates 
That  lived,  and  L.that  died  ; 


'T  was  heaven  to  see  through  th'  frosty 

panes 
The  warm,  red  cheeks  inside  ! 


THE   WATER-BEARER. 

'T  WAS  in  the  middle  of  summer, 

And  burning  hot  the  sun, 
That  Margaret  sat  on  the   low-roofed 
porch, 

A-singing  as  she  spun  : 

Singing  a  ditty  of  slighted  love, 
That  shook  with  every  note 

The  softly  shining  hair  that  fell 
In  ripples  round  her  throat. 

The  changeful  color  of  her  cheek 
At  a  breath  would  fall  and  rise, 

And  even  th'  sunny  lights  of  hope 
Made  shadows  in  her  eyes. 

Beneath  the  snowy  petticoat 
You  guessed  the  feet  were  bare, 

By  the  slippers  near  her  on  the  floor,  — . 
A  dainty  little  pair. 

She  loved  the  low  and  tender  tones 
The  wearied  summer  yields, 

When  out  of  her  wheaten  leash  she 

slips 
And  strays  into  frosty  fields. 

And  better  than  th'  time  that  all 

The  air  with  music  fills, 
She  loved  the  little  sheltered  nest 

Alive  with  yellow  bills. 

But  why  delay  my  tale,  to  make 

A  poem  in  her  praise  ? 
Enough  that  truth  and  virtue  shone 

In  all  her  modest  ways. 

'Twas  noon-day  when   the   housewife 
said, 

"  Now,  Margaret,  leave  undone 
Your  task  of  spinning-work,  and  set 

Your  wheel  out  of  the  sun  ; 

"  And  tie  your  slippers  on,  and  take 

The  cedar-pail  with  bands 
Yellow  as  gold,  and  bear  to  the  field 

Cool  water  for  the  hands  !  " 

And  Margaret  set  her  wheel  aside, 
And  breaking  off  her  thread, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POE^S.  JGl 


Went  forth  into  the  harvest-field 
With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 
With  shining  yellow  bands, 

Through  clover  reaching  its  red  tops 
Almost  into  her  hands. 

Her  ditty  flowing  on  the  air, 
For  she  did  not  break  her  song, 

And  the  water  dripping  o'er  th'  grass, 
From  her  pail  as  she  went  along,  — 

Over  the  grass  that  said  to  her, 
Trembling  through  all  its  leaves, 

"  A  bright  rose  for  some  harvester 
To  bind  among  his  sheaves  !  " 

And  clouds  of  gay  green  grasshoppers 

Flew  up  the  way  she  went, 
And   beat    their   wings    against    their 
sides, 

And  chirped  their  discontent. 

And  the  blackbird  left  the  piping  of 

His  amorous,  airy  glee, 
And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing, — 

An  evil  sign  to  see. 

The  meadow-herbs,  as  if  they  felt 
Some  secret  wound,  in  showers 

Shook  down  their  bright  buds  till  her 

way 
Was  ankle-deep  with  flowers. 

But  Margaret  never  heard  th'  voice 
That  sighed  in  th'  grassy  leaves, 

"  A  bright  rose  for  some  harvester 
To  bind  among  his  sheaves  !  " 

Nor  saw  the  clouds  of  grasshoppers 

Along  her  path  arise, 
Nor  th'  daisy  hang  her  head  aside 

And  shut  her  golden  eyes. 

She  never  saw  the  blackbird  when 
He  hushed  his  amorous  glee, 

And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing,  — 
That  evil  sign  to  see. 

Nor  did  she  know  the  rneadow-herbs 
Shook  down  their  buds  in  showers 

To    choke    her  pathway,   though   her 

feet 
Were  ankle-deep  in  flowers. 

But  humming  still  of  slighted  love, 
That  shook  at  every  note 


The  softly  shining  hair  that  fell 
In  ripples  round  her  throat, 

She   came   'twixt   winrows  heaped   as 
high, 

And  higher  than  her  waist, 
And  under  a  bush  of  sassafras 

The  cedar-pail  she  placed. 

And  with  the  drops  like  starry  rain 

A-glittering  in  her  hair, 
She  gave  to  every  harvester 

His  cool  and  grateful  share. 

But  there  was  one  with  eyes  so  sweet 

Beneath  his  shady  brim, 
That  thrice  within  the  cedar-pail 

She  dipped  her  cup  for  him  ! 

What  wonder  if  a  young  man's  heart 
Should  feel  her  beauty's  charm, 

And  in  his  fancy  clasp  her  like 
The  sheaf  within  his  arm  ; 

What  wonder  if  his  tender  looks, 
That  seemed  the  sweet  disguise 

Of  sweeter  things  unsaid,  should  make 
A  picture  in  her  eyes  ! 

What  wonder  if  the  single  rose 
That  graced  her  cheek  erewhile, 

Deepened  its  cloudy  crimson,  till 
It  doubled  in  his  smile  ! 

Ah  me  !  the  housewife  never  said, 
Again,  when  Margaret  spun,  — 

"  Now  leave  your  task  a  while,  and  set 
Your  wheel  out  of  the  sun  ; 

"  And  tie  your  slippers  on,  and  take 
The  pail  with  yellow  bands, 

And  bear  into  the  harvest-field 
Cool  water  for  the  hands." 

For  every  day,  and  twice  a-day, 
Did  Margaret  break  her  thread, 

And  singing,  hasten  to  the  field, 
With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 
And  shining  yellow  bands, — 

For  all  her  care  was  now  to  bear 
Cool  water  to  the  hands. 

What  marvel  if  the  young  man's  love 

Unfolded  leaf  by  leaf, 
Until  within  his  arms  ere  long 

He  clasped  her  like  a  sheaf  ! 


,  THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


What  marvel  if  't  was  Margaret's  heart 
With  fondest  hopes  that  beat, 

While  th'  young  man's  fancy  idly  lay 
As  his  sickle  in  the  wheat. 

That,  while  her  thought  flew,  maiden 
like, 

To  years  of  marriage  bliss, 
His  lay  like  a  bee  in  a  flower,  shut  up 

Within  the  moment's  kiss  ! 

What  marvel  if  his  love  grew  cold, 

And  fell  off  leaf  by  leaf, 
And  that  her  heart  was  choked  to  death, 

Like  the  rose  within  his  sheaf. 

When  autumn  filled  her  lap  with  leaves, 

Yellow,  and  cold,  and  wet, 
The  bands  of  th'  pail  turned  black,  and 
th'  wheel 

On  the  porch-side,  idle  set. 

And  Margaret's  hair  was  combed  and 
tied 

Under  a  cap  of  lace, 
And  th'  housewife  held  the  baby  up 

To  kiss  her  quiet  face  ; 

And  all  the  sunburnt  harvesters 
Stood  round  the  door,  —  each  one 

Telling  of  some  good  word  or  deed 
That  she  had  said  or  done. 

Nay,  there  was  one  that  pulled  about 

His  face  his  shady  brim, 
As  if  it  were  his  kiss,  not  Death's, 

That  made  her  eyes  so  dim. 

And  while  the  tearful  women  told 
That  when  they  pinned  her  shroud, 

One  tress  from  th'  ripples  round  her 

neck 
Was  gone,  he  wept  aloud  ; 

And  answered,  pulling  down  his  brim 

Until  he  could  not  see, 
It  was  some  ghost  that  stole  the  tress, 

For  that  it  was  not  he  ! 

'T  is  years  since  on  the  cedar-pail 
The  yellow  bands  grew  black,  — 

'T  is  years  since  in  the  harvest-field 
They  turned  th'  green  sod  back 

To  give  poor  Margaret  room,  and  all 
Who  chance  that  way  to  pass, 

May  see  at  the  head  of  her  narrow  bed 
A  bush  of  sassafras. 


Yet  often  in  the  time  o'  th'  year 
When  the  hay  is  mown  and  spread, 

There  walks  a  maid  in  th'  midnight 

shade 
With  a  pail  upon  her  head. 


THE  BEST  JUDGMENT. 

GET  up,  my  little  handmaid, 
And  see  what  you  will  see  ; 

The  stubble-fields  and  all  the  fields 
Are  white  as  they  can  be. 

Put  on  your  crimson  cashmere, 
And  hood  so  soft  and  warm, 

With  all  its  woolen  linings, 
And  never  heed  the  storm. 

For  you  must  find  the  miller 
In  the  west  of  Wertburg-town, 

And  bring  me  meal  to  feed  my  cows, 
Before  the  sun  is  down. 

Then  woke  the  little  handmaid, 

From  sleeping  on  her  arm, 
And  took  her  crimson  cashmere, 

And  hood  with  woolen  warm  ; 

And  bridle,  with  its  buckles 

Of  silver,  from  the  wall, 
And  rode  until  the  golden  sun 

Was  sloping  to  his  fall. 

Then  on  the  miller's  door-stone, 
In  the  west  of  Wertburg-town, 

She  dropt  the  bridle  from  her  hands, 
And  quietly  slid  down. 

And  when  to  her  sweet  face  her  beast 
Turned  round,  as  if  he  said, 

"  How  cold  I  am  !  "  she  took  her  hood 
And  put  it  on  his  head. 

Soft  spoke  she  to  the  miller, 

"  Nine  cows  are  stalled  at  home, 

And  hither  for  three  bags  of  meiil, 
To  feed  them,  I  am  come." 

Now  when  the  miller  saw  the  price 
She  brought  was  not  by  half 

Enough  to  buy  three  bags  of  meal, 
He  filled  up  two  with  chaff. 

The  night  was  wild  and  windy, 
The  moon  was  thin  and  old, 

As  home  the  little  handmaid  rode 
All  shivering  with  the  cold, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


103 


Beside  the  river,  black  with  ice, 
And  through  the  lonesome  wood  ; 

The  snow  upon  her  hair  the  while 
A-gathering  like  a  hood. 

And  when  beside  the  roof-tree 
Her  good  beast  neighed  aloud, 

Her  pretty  crimson  cashmere 
Was  whiter  than  a  shroud. 

"  Get  down,  you  silly  handmaid," 
The  old  dame  cried,  "  get  clown,  — 

You  've  been  a  long  time  riding 

From  the  west  of  Wertburg-town  !  " 

And  from  her  oaken  settle 
Forth  hobbled  she  amain,  — 

Alas  !  the  slender  little  hands 
Were  frozen  to  the  rein. 

Then  came  the  neighbors,  one  and  all, 

With  melancholy  brows, 
Mourning  because  the  dame  had  lost 

The  keeper  of  her  cows. 

And  cursing  the  rich  miller, 

In  blind,  misguided  zeal, 
Because  he  sent  two  bags  of  chaff 

And  only  one  of  meal. 

Dear  Lord,  how  little  man's  award 

The  right  or  wrong  attest, 
And  he  who  judges  least,  I  think, 

Is  he  who  judges  best. 


HUGH  THORNDYKE. 

EGALTON'S  hills  are  sunny, 
And  brave  with  oak  and  pine, 

And  Egalton's  sons  and  daughters 
Are  tall  and  straight  and  fine. 

The  harvests  in  the  summer 
Cover  the  land  like  a  smile, 

For  Egalton's  men  and  women 
Are  busy  all  the  while. 

'T  is  merry  in  the  mowing 
To  see  the  great  swath  fall, 

And  the  little  laughing  maidens 
Raking,  one  and  all. 

Their  heads  like  golden  lilies 

Shining  over  the  hay, 
And  every  one  among  them 

As  sweet  as  a  rose  in  May. 


And  yet  despite  the  favor 

Which  Heaven  doth  thus  alot, 

Egalton  has  its  goblin, 

As  what  good  land  has  not  ? 

Hugh  Thorndyke— (peace  be  with  him, 

He  is  not  living  now)  — 
Was  tempted  by  this  creature 

One  day  to  leave  his  plow, 

And  sit  beside  the  furrow 
In  a  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 

For  the  lying  goblin  told  him 
That  he  would  sow  his  wheat. 

And  told  him  this,  morever, 
That  if  he  would  not  mind, 

His  house  should  burn  to  ashes, 
His  children  be  struck  blind  ! 

So,  trusting  half,  half  frightened, 
Poor  Hugh  with  many  a  groan 

Waited  beside  the  furrow, 

But  the  wheat  was  never  sown. 

And  when  the  fields  about  him 
Grew  white,  —  with  very  shame 

He  told  his  story,  giving 
The  goblin  all  the  blame. 

Now  Hugh's  wife  loved  her  husband, 

And  when  he  told  her  this, 
She  took  his  brawny  hands  in  hers 

And  gave  them  each  a  kiss, 

Saying,  we  ourselves  this  goblin 
Shall  straightway  lay  to  rest,  — 

The    more   he    does   his   worst,   dear 

Hugh, 
The  more  we  '11  do  our  best ! 

To  work  they  went,  and  all  turned  out 

Just  as  the  good  wife  said, 
And  Hugh  was  blest,  - — •  his  corn  that 
year, 

Grew  higher  than  his  head. 

They  sing  a  song  in  Egalton 
Hugh  made  there,  long  ago, 

Which  says  that  honest  love  and  work 
Are  all  we  need  below. 


FAITHLESS. 

SEVEN  great  windows  looking  seaward, 
Seven    smooth   columns   white   and 
high  ; 


104 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE    GARY. 


Here  it  was  we  made  our  bright  plans, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Soft  and  sweet  the  water  murmured 
By  yon  stone  wall,  low  and  gray, 

'T  was   the   moonlight    and   the   mid 
night 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

On  the  porch,  now  dark  and  lonesome, 
Sat  we  as  the  hours  went  by, 

Fearing  nothing,  hoping  all  things, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Singing  low  and  pleasant  ditties, 
Kept  the  tireless  wind  his  way, 

Through  the  moonlight  and   the   mid 
night 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

Not  for  sake  of  pleasant  ditties, 
Such  as  winds  may  sing  or  sigh, 

Sat  we  on  the  porch  together, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Shrilly  crew  the  cock  so  watchful, 
Answering  to  the  watch-dog's  bay, 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

Had  the  gates  of  Heaven  been  open 
We  would  then  have  passed  them  by, 

Well  content  with  earthly  pleasures, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

I  have  seen  the  bees  thick-flying, — 
Azure-winged  and  ringed  with  gold  ; 

I  have  seen  the  sheep  from  washing 
Come  back  snowy  to  the  fold  ; 

And  her  hair  was  bright  as  bees  are, 
Bees  with  shining  golden  bands  ; 

And  no  wool  was  ever  whiter 
Than  her  little  dimpled  hands. 

Oft  we  promised  to  be  lovers, 

Howe'er  fate  our  faith  should  try ; 

Giving  kisses  back  for  kisses, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Tears,  sad  tears,  be  stayed  from  fall 
ing  ;  . 

Ye  can  bring  no  faintest  ray 
From  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 

Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

If  some  friend  would  come  and  tell  me, 
"  On  your  Mildred's  eyes  so  blue 


Grass  has  grown,  but  on  her  death-bed 
She  was  saying  prayers  for  you  ;  " 

Here  beside  the  smooth  white  columns 
I  should  not  so  grieve  to-day, 

For  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 


MY   FADED   SHAWL. 

TELL  you  a  story,  do  you  say  ? 

Whatever  my  wits  remember? 
Well,  going  down  to  the  woods  one  day 
Through  the  winds  o'  the  wild  No 
vember, 
I  met  a  lad,  called  Charley. 

We  lived  on  the  crest  o'  the  Krumley 

ridge, 

And  I  was  a  farmer's  daughter, 
And   under   the    hill  by  the   Krumley 

bridge 

Of  the  crazy  Krumley  water, 
Lived  this  poor  lad,  Charley. 

Right  well  I  knew  his  ruddy  cheek, 
And  step  as  light  as  a  feather, 

Although  we  never  were  used  to  speak, 
And  never  to  play  together, 
I  and  this  poor  lad  Charley. 

So,  when  I  saw  him  hurrying  down 
My  path,  will  you  believe  me  ? 

I  knit  my  brow  to  an  ugly  frown,  — 
Forgive  me,  oh  forgive  me  ! 
Sweet  shade  of  little  Charley. 

The  dull  clouds  dropped  their  skirts  of 

snow 

On  the  hills,  and  made  them  colder  ; 
I  was  only  twelve  years  old,  or  so, 
And  may  be  a  twelve-month  older 
Was  Charley,  dearest  Charley. 

A  faded  shawl,  with  flowers  o'  blue, 

All  tenderly  and  fairly 
Enwrought    by   his    mother's    hand,  I 

knew, 

He  wore  that  day,  my  Charley, 
My  little  love,  my  Charley. 

His  great  glad  eyes  with  light  were  lit 
Like  the  dewy  light  o'  the  morning ; 

His  homespun  jacket,  not  a  whit 
Less  proudly,  for  my  scorning, 
He  wore,  brave-hearted  Charley. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


105 


I  bore  a  pitcher,  —  't  was  our  pride,  — 
At  the  fair  my  father  won  it, 

And  consciously  I  turned  the  side 
With  the  golden  lilies  on  it, 
To  dazzle  the  eyes  o'  Charley. 

This  pitcher,  and  a  milk-white  loaf, 

Piping  hot  from  the  platter, 
When,  where  the  path  turned  sharply 

off 

To  the  crazy  Krumley  water, 
I  came  upon  my  Charley. 

He  smiled,  —  my  pulses  never  stirred 

From  their  still  and  steady  measures, 
Till  the  wind  came  flapping  down  like 

a  bird 

And  caught  away  my  treasures. 
"  Help  me,  O  Charley  !  Charley  ! 

My  loaf,  my  golden  lilies  gone  !  " 

My  heart  was  all  a-flutter  ; 
For  I  saw  them  whirling  on  and  on 

To  the  frozen  Krumley  water, 
And  then  I  saw  my  Charley, 

The  frayed  and  faded  shawl  from  his 

neck 

Unknot,  with  a  quick,  wise  cunning, 
And  speckled  with  snow-flakes,  toss  it 

back, 

That  he  might  be  free  for  running. 
My  good,  great-hearted  Charley. 

I  laid  it  softly  on  my  arm, 

I  warmed  it  in  my  bosom, 
And  traced  each  broider-stitch  to  the 

form 

Of  its  wilding  model  blossom, 
For  sake  of  my  gentle  Charley. 

Away,  away  !  like  a  shadow  fleet ! 
The  air  was  thick  and  blinding  ; 
The  icy  stones  were  under  his  feet, 
And  the  way  was  steep  and  winding. 
Come  back !  come  back  my  Char 
ley  ! 

He  waved  his  ragged  cap  in  the  air, 

My  childish  fears  to  scatter  ; 
Dear  Lord,  was  it  Charley  ?     Was  he 

there, 

On  th'  treacherous  crust  o'  th'  water  ? 
No  more  !    't  is   death  !   my  Char 
ley. 

The  thin  blue  glittering  sheet  of  ice 
Bends,  breaks,  and  falls  asunder  ; 


His  arms  are  lifted  once,  and  twice  ! 
My  God  !  he  is  going  under  ! 

He  is  drowned  !  he  is  dead  !  my 
Charley. 

The  wild  call  stops,  —  the  blood  runs 
chill  ; 


I  dash  the  tears  from  my  lashes, 
strain  IT 
hill,  — 


nY 
And    strain  my  gaze  to  th'  foot  o'  th 


Who  flies  so  fast  through  the  rushes  ? 
My  drowned  love  ?  my  Charley  ? 

My  brain  is  wild,  —  I  laugh,  I  cry,  — 
The  chill  blood  thaws  and  rallies  ; 
What  holds  he  thus,  so  safe  and  high  ? 
My  loaf  ?  and  my  golden  lilies  ? 
Charley  !  my  sweet,  sweet   Char 
ley  ! 

Across  my  mad  brain  word  on  word 
Of  tenderness  went  whirling  ; 

I  kissed  him,  called  him  my  little  bird 
O'  th'  woods,  my  dove,  my  darling,  — 
My  true,  true  love,  my  Charley. 

In  what  sweet  phrases  he  replied 
I  know  not  now  •—  no  matter  — 
This  only,  that  he  would  have  died 
In  the  crazy  Krumley  water 
To  win  my  praise,  —  dear  Char 
ley  ! 

He  took  the  frayed  and  faded  shawl, 

For  his  sake  warmed  all  over, 
And  wrapped  me  round  and  round  with 

all 

The  tenderness  of  a  lover,  — 
My  best,  my  bravest  Charley  ! 

And  when  his  shoes  o'  the  snows  were 

full,  — 

Aye,  full  to  their  tops,  —  a-smiling 
He  said  they  were  lined  with  a  fleece 

o'  wool, 

The  pain  o'  th'  frost  beguiling. 
Was  ever  a  lad  like  Charley  ? 

So   down   the    slope   o'   th'    Krumley 

ridge. 

Our  hands  locked  fast  together, 
And  over  the  crazy  Krumley  bridge, 
We  went  through  the  freezing  weath 
er, - 
I  and  my  drowned  Charley. 

The  corn  fields  all  of  ears  were  bare  ; 
But  the  stalks,  so  bright  and  brittle. 


io6 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  the  black  and  empty  husks  were 

there 

For  the  mouths  of  the  hungry  cattle. 
We  passed  them,  I  and  Charley. 

And  passed  the  willow-tree  that  went 

With  the  wind,  as  light  as  a  feather, 
And    th'    two   proud    oaks    with    their 

shoulders  bent 

Till  their  faces  came  together,  — 
Whispering,  I  said  to  Charley  : 

The  hollow  sycamore,  so  white, 

The  old  gum,  straight  and  solemn, 
With  never  the  curve  of  a  root  in  sight ; 
But   set   in   the   ground   like  a  col 
umn,  — 
I,  prattling  to  my  Charley. 

We  left  behind  the  sumach  hedge, 
And  the  waste  of  stubble  crossing, 

Came  at  last  to  the  dusky  edge 

Of  the  woods,  so  wildly  tossing,  — 
I  and  my  quiet  Charley. 

Ankle-deep  in  the  leaves  we  stood, — 
The  leaves  that  were  brown  as  leather 
And  saw  the   choppers   chopping  the 

wood,  — 

Seven  rough  men  together,  — 
I  and  my  drooping  Charley. 

I  see  him  now  as  I  saw  him  stand 
With  my  loaf  —  he  had  hardly  won 

it  — 

And  the  beautiful  pitcher  in  his  hand, 
With'  the  golden  lilies  on  it, — 
My  little  saint  —  my  Charley. 

The  stubs  were  burning  hear  and  there, 

The  winds  the  fierce  flames  blowing, 

And  the  arms  o'  th'  choppers,  brown 

and  bare, 

Now  up,  now  down  are  going,  — 
I  turn  to  them  from  Charley. 

Right  merrily  the  echoes  ring 
From  the  sturdy  work  a-doing, 

And  as  the  woodsmen  chop,  they  sing 

Of  the  girls  that  they  are  wooing. 

O  what  a  song  for  Charley  ! 

This  way  an  elm  begins  to  lop, 
And  that,  its  balance  losing, 
And  the  squirrel  comes  from  his  nest 

in  the  top, 

And  sits  in  the  boughs  a-musing. 
What  ails  my  little  Charley  ? 


The  loaf  from  out  his  hand  he  drops, 

His  eyelid  flutters,  closes  ; 
He  tries  to  speak,  he  whispers,  stops,  — 

His  mouth  its  rose-red  loses,  — 
One  look,  just  one,  my  Charley. 

And  now  his  white  and  frozen  cheek 
Each  wild-eyed  chopper  fixes, 

And  never  a  man  is  heard  to  speak 
As  they  set  their  steel-blue  axes, 
And  haste  to  the  help  o'  Charley  ! 

Say,  what  does  your  beautiful  pitcher 

hold  ? 

Come  tell  us  if  you  can,  sir  ! 
The  chopper's  question  was  loud  and 

bold, 

But  never  a  sign  nor  answer  : 
All  fast  asleep  \vas  Charley. 

The  stubs  are  burning  low  to  th'  earth, 

The  winds  the  fierce  flames  flaring, 
And    now  to  the  edge    of  the    crystal 

hearth 

The  men  in  their  arms  are  bearing 
The  clay-cold  body  of  Charley. 

O'er    heart,   o'er    temple    those    rude 

hands  go, 

Each  hand  as  light  as  a  brother's, 
As  they  gather  about  him  in  the  snow, 
Like  a  company  of  mothers,  — 
My  dead,  my  darling  Charley. 

Before  them  all  (my  heart  grew,  bold,) 

From  off  my  trembling  bosom, 
I  unwound  the  mantle,  fold  by  fold, 
All  for  my  blighted  blossom, 

My  sweet  white  flower,  —  my  Char 
ley. 

I  have  tokens  large,  I  have  tokens  small 
Of  all  my  life's  lost  pleasures, 

But  that  poor  frayed  and  faded  shawl 
Is  the  treasure  of  my  treasures,  — 
The  first,  last  gift'of  Charley. 


OLD  CHUMS. 


Is  it  you,  Jack  ?     Old  boy,  is  it  really 


you 


I  should  n't  have  known  you  but  that 

I  was  told 
You  might  be  expected  ;  —  pray  how 

do  you  do  ? 
But  what,  under  heaven,  has    made 

you  so  old  ? 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


ID/ 


Your  hair  !    why,  you  've  only  a  little 

gray  fuzz  ! 
And  your  beard  's  white  !   but  that 

can  be  beautifully  dyed  ; 
And  your  legs  are  n't  but  just  half  as 

long  as  they  was  ; 

And  then  —  stars  and  garters!  your 
vest  is  so  wide  ! 

Is  that  your  hand  ?  Lord,  how  I  envied 

you  that 
In  the  time  of  our  courting,  —  so  soft 

and  so  small, 
And   now  it  is  callous  inside,  and  so 

fat, — 

Well,  you  beat  the  very  old  deuce, 
that  is  all. 

Turn  round  !  let  me  look  at  you  !  is  n't 

it  odd, 
How  strange  in  a  few  years  a  fellow's 

chum  grows  ! 
Your  eye  is  shrunk  up  like  a  bean  in  a 

pod, 

And  what  are  these  lines  branching 
out  from  your  nose  ? 

Your  back  has  gone  up  and  your  shoul 
ders  gone  down, 
And  all  the  old  roses  are  under  the 

plough  ; 
Why,  Jack,  if  we  'd  happened  to  meet 

about  town, 

I  would  n't   have   known   you   from 
Adam,  I  vow  ! 

You  've  had  trouble,  have  you  ?     I  'm 

sorry  ;  but  John, 
All  trouble  sits  lightly  at  your  time 

of  life. 
How  's  Billy,  my  namesake  ?  You  don't 

say  he  's  gone 

To  the  war,  John,  and  that  you  have 
buried  your  wife  ? 

Poor  Katharine  !  so  she  has  left  you  — 

ah  me  ! 

I  thought  she  would  live  to  be  fifty, 
or  more. 

What  is  it  you  tell  me  ?   She  was  fifty- 
three  ! 

Oh  no,  Jack  !  she  was  n't  so  much,  by 
a  score  ! 

Well,  there  's   little  Katy,  —  was  that 

her  name,  John  ? 

She  '11  rule  your  house  one  of  these 
days  like  a  queen. 


That  baby  !  good  Lord  !  is  she  married 

and  gone  ? 

With  a  Jack  ten  years  old  !  and  a  Katy 
fourteen  ! 

Then     I    give    it    up  !     Why,    you  're 

younger  than  I 
By  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  to  think 

you  've  come  back 
A  sober  old  graybeard,  just   ready  to 


die! 

I   don't  understand   how  it  is 
you, Jack  ? 


do 


I  've  got  all  my  faculties  yet,  sound  and 

bright  ; 
Slight  failure  my  eyes  are  beginning 

to  hint ; 
But  still,  with  my  spectacles  on,  and  a 

light 

'Twixt   them   and   the   page,  I    can 
read  any  print. 

My  hearing  is  dull,  and  my  leg  is  more 

spare, 
Perhaps,   than   it  was  when  I   beat 

you  at  ball  ; 
My  breath  gives  out,  too,  if  I  go  up  a 

stair,  — 

But  nothing  worth  mentioning,  noth 
ing  at  all  ! 

My  hair  is  just   turning  a   little   you 

see, 

And  lately  I  've  put  on  a  broader- 
brimmed  hat 
Than  I  wore  at  your  wedding,  but  you 

will  agree, 

Old  fellow,  I  look  all  the  better  for 
that. 

I  'm  sometimes  a  little  rheumatic,  't  is 

true, 
And    my    nose    isn't     quite    on    a 


straight  line,  they  say  ; 


For  all  that,  I  don't  thin 


v  say  ; 
k  I  've 


changed 


much,  do  you  ? 

And  I  don't  feel  a  day  older,  Jack, 
not  a  day. 


THE  SHOEMAKER. 

Now  the  hickory  with  its  hum 

Cheers  the  wild  and  rainy  weather, 

And  the  shoemaker  has  come 

With  his  lapstone,  last,  and  leather. 


io8 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


With  his  head  as  white  as  wool, 
With  the  wrinkles  getting  bolder, 

And  his  heart  with  news  as  full 
As  the  wallet  on  his  shoulder. 

How  the  children's  hearts  will  beat, 
How  their  eyes  will  shine  with  pleas 
ure 

As  he  sets  their  little  feet, 

Bare  and  rosy,  in  his  measure, 

And  how,  behind  his  chair, 

They  will  steal  grave  looks  to  sum 
mon, 
As  he  ties  away  his  hair 

From  his  forehead,  like  a  woman. 

When  he  tells  the  merry  news 

How  their  eyes  will  laugh  and  glis 
ten, 

While  the  mother  binds  the  shoes 
And  they  gather  round  and  listen. 

But  each  one,  leaning  low 

On  his  lapstone,  will  be  crying, 

As  he  tells  how  little  Jo, 

With  a  broken  back  is  dying. 

Of  the  way  he  came  to  fall 
In  the  flowery  April  weather, 

Of  the  new  shoes  on  the  wall 
That  are  hanging,  tied  together. 

How  the  face  of  little  Jo 

Has  grown  white,  and  they  who  love 

him 
See  the  shadows  come  and  go, 

As  if  angels  flew  above  him. 

And  the  old  shoemaker,  true 
To  the  woe  of  the  disaster, 

Will  uplift  his  apron  blue 

To  his  eyes,  then  work  the  faster. 


TO  THE  WIND. 

STEER  hither,  rough  old  mariner, 
Keeping  your  jolly  crew 

Beating  about  in  the  seas  of  life,  - 
Steer  hither,  and  tell  me  true 

About  my  little  son  Maximus, 
Who  sailed  away  with  you  ! 

Seven  and  twenty  years  ago 
He  came  to  us,  —  ah  me  ! 


The  snow  that  fell  that  whistling  night 

Was  not  so  pure  as  he, 
And  I  was  rich  enough,  I  trow, 

When  I  took  him  on  my  knee. 

I  was  rich  enough,  and  when  I  met 

A  man,  unthrift  and  lorn, 
Whom  I  a  hundred  times  had  met 

With  less  of  pity  than  scorn, 
I  opened  my  purse,  —  it  was  well  for 
him 

That  Maximus  was  born  ! 

We  have  five  boys  at  home,  erect 
And  straight  of  limb,  and  tall, 

Gentle,  and  loving  all  that  God 
Has  made,  or  great  or  small, 

But  Maximus,  our  youngest  born, 
Was  the  gentlest  of  them  all  ! 

Yet    was    he     brave,  —  they    all    are 
brave, 

Not  one  for  favor  or  frown 
That  fears  to  set  his  strength  against 

The  bravest  of  the  town, 
But  this,  our  little  Maximus, 

Could  fight  when  he  was  down. 

Six  darling  boys  !  not  one  of  all, 

If  we  had  had  to  choose, 
Could  we  have  singled  from  the  rest 

To  sail  on  such  a  cruise, 
But  surely  little  Maximus 

Was  not  the  one  to  lose  ! 

His  hair  divided  into  slips, 

And  tumbled  every  way,  — 
His  mother  always  called  them  curls, 

She  has  one  to  this  day,  — 
And  th'  nails  of   his  hands  were    thin 
and  red 

As  the  leaves  of  a  rose  in  May. 

Steer  hither,  rough  mariner,  and  bring 
Some  news  of  our  little  lad,  — • 

If  he  be  anywhere  out  of  th'  grave 
It  will  make  his  mother  glad, 

Tho'    he   grieved    her   more    with    his 

waywardness 
Than  all  the  boys  she  had. 

I  know  it  was  against  himself, 

For  he  was  good  and  kind, 
That  he  left  us,  though  he  saw  our  eyes 

With  tears,  for  his  sake,  blind,  — 
Oh  how  can  you  give  to  such  as  he, 

Your  nature,  willful  wind  ! 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATJVE  POEMS. 


109 


LITTLE  CYRUS. 

EMILY  MAYFIELD  all  the  day 
Sits  and  rocks  her  cradle  alone, 

And  never  a  neighbor  comes  to  say 
How  pretty  little  Cyrus  has  grown. 

Meekly  Emily's  head  is  hung, 

Many  a  sigh  from  her  bosom  breaks, 

And  ne'er  such  pitiful  tune  was  sung 
As  that  her  lowly  lullaby  makes. 

Near  where  the  village   school-house 
stands, 

On  the  grass  by  the  mossy  spring, 
Merry  children  are  linking  hands, 

But  little  Cyrus  is  not  in  the  ring. 

"  They  might   make  room  for  me,   if 

they  tried," 
He  thinks  as  he  listens  to  call  and 

shout, 

And  his  eyes  so  pretty  are  open  wide, 
Wondering  why  they  have  left  him 
out. 

Nightly  hurrying  home  they  go, 

Each,  of  the  praise  he  has   had  to 

boast 

But  never  an  honor  can  Cyrus  show, 
And  yet  he  studies  his  book  the  most. 

Little  Cyrus  is  out  in  the  hay, — 

Not  where  the  clover  is  sweet   and 

red, 

With  mates  of  his  tender  years  at  play, 
But  where  the  stubble  is  sharp,  in 
stead, 

And  every  flowerless  shrub  and  tree 
That   takes   the   twinkling  noontide 
heat, 

Is  dry  and  dusty  as  it  can  be  ; 

There  with  his  tired,  sunburnt  feet 

Dragging  wearily,  Cyrus  goes, 
Trying  to  sing  as  the  others  do, 

But  never  the  stoutest  hand  that  mows 
Says,  "  It  is  work  too  hard  for  you, 

Little  Cyrus,  your  hands  so  small 
Bleed  with  straining   to   keep   your 

place, 
And  the  look  that  says  I  must  bear  it 

all 

Is  sadder  than  tears  in  your  childish 
face  : 


So  give  me  your  knotty  swath  to  mow, 
And  rest  a  while  on  the  shady  sward, 
Else  your  body  will  crooked  grow, 
Little  Cyrus,  from  working  hard." 

If  he  could  listen  to  words  like  that, 
The   stubble  would   not  be  half  so 

rough 

To  his  naked  feet,  and  his  ragged  hat 
Would  shield  him  from  sunshine  well 
enough. 

But  ne'er  a  moment  the  mowers  check 
Song  or  whistle,  to  think  of  him, 

With  blisters  burning  over  his  neck, 
Under  his  straw  hat's  ragged  brim. 

So,  stooping  over  the  field  he  goes, 
With  none  to  pity  if  he  complain, 
And  so  the  crook  in  his  body  grows, 
And  he  never  can  stand   up   straight 
again. 

The    cattle   lie   down   in   the   lane   so 

still, - 
The  scythes  in  the  apple-tree  shine 

bright, 
And  Cyrus  sits  on  the  ashen  sill 

Watching  the  motes,  in  the  streaks 
of  light, 

Quietly  slanting  out  of  the  sky, 
Over  the  hill  to  the  porch  so  low, 

Wondering  if  in  the  world  on  high 
There   will   be  any  briery  fields   to 


Emily  Mayfield,  pale  and  weak, 

Steals  to  his  side  in  the  light  so  dim, 
And    the    single    rose    in   his    swarthy 

cheek 

Grows  double,  the  while  she  says  to 
him,  — 

Little  Cyrus,  't  is  many  a  day 

§ince  one  with  just  your  own  sweet 

eyes, 

And  a  voice  as  rich  as  a  bird's  in  May, 
(Gently    she    kisses     the    boy    and 
sighs,) 

Here  on  the  porch  when  the  work  was 

done, 

Sat  with  a  young  girl,  (not  like  me,) 
Her  heart  was  light  as  the  wool   she 

spun, 

And  her  laughter  merry  as  it  could 
be; 


1 10 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Her  hair  was  silken,  he  used  to  say, 
When  they  sat  on   the    porch-side, 

"  woeful  when," 

And  I  know  the  clover  you  mowed  to 
day 

Was  not  more  red  than  her  cheeks 
were  then. 

He  told  her  many  a  story  wild, 

Like    this,  perhaps,  which  I  tell    to 

you, 

And  she  was  a  woman  less  than  child, 
And  thought  whatever  he  said  was 
true. 

From  home  and  kindred,  —  ah  me,  ah 

me  ! 
With  only  her  faith  in  his  love,  she 

fled, 
'T  was  all  like  a  dreaming,  and  when 

she  could  see 

She  owned  she  was  sinful  and  prayed 
to  be  dead. 

But   always,    however  long    she    may 

live, 

Desolate,    desolate,    she     shall    re 
pine, 
And  so  with  no  love  to  receive  or  to 

give, 

Her  face  is  as  sad  and  as  wrinkled 
as  mine. 

Little  Cyrus,  trembling,  lays 

His    head  on  his  mother's  knee   to 

cry, 
And  kissing  his    sunburnt   cheek,  she 

says, 
"  Hush,  my  darling,  it  was  not  I." 


FIFTEEN  AND  FIFTY. 

COME,  darling,  put  your  frown  aside  ! 

I  own  my  fault,  't  is  true,  't  is  true, 
There  is  one  picture  that  I  hide, 

Even  away  from  you  ! 

Why,  then,  I  do  not  love  you  ?     Nay, 
You  wrong  me  there,  my  pretty  one  : 

Remember  you  are  in  your  May  ; 
My  summer  days  are  clone, 

My  autumn  days  are  come,  in  truth, 
And  blighting  frosts  begin  to  fall ; 

You  are  the  sunny  light  of  youth, 
That  glorifies  it  all. 


Even  when  winter  clouds  shall  break 
In    storms,    I    shall    not    mind,    my 
dear, 

For  you  within  my  heart  shall  make 
The  springtime  of  the  year  ! 

In  short,  life  did  its  best  for  me, 
When  first  our  paths  together  ran  ; 

But  I  had  lived,  you  will  agree, 
One  life,  ere  yours  began. 

I  must  have  smiled,  I  must  have  wept, 
Ere   mirth   or  moan   could  do   you 
wrong ; 

But  come,  and  see  the  picture,  kept 
Hidden  away  so  long! 

The  walk  will  not  be  strange  nor  far,  — 
Across  the  meadow,  toward  the  tree 

From  whose  thick  top  one  silver  star 
Uplifting  slow,  you  see. 

So  darling,  we  have  gained  the  hight 
Where    lights    and    shadows    softly 
meet ; 

Rest  you  a  moment,  —  full  in  sight, 
My  picture  lies  complete. 

A  hill-side  dark,  with  woods  behind, 
A  strip  of  emerald  grass  before, — 

A  homely  house  ;  some  trees  that  blind 
Window,  and  wall,  and  door. 

A  singing  streamlet,  —  either  side 
Bordered    with    flowers,    geraniums 

£av> 

And  pinks,  with  red  mouths  open  wide 
For  sunshine,  all  the  day. 

A  tasseled  corn  field  on  one  hand, 
And  on  the  other  meadows  green, 

With  angles  of  bright  harvest  bend 
Wedged  sunnily  between. 

A  world  of  smiling  ways  and  walks, 
The  hop-vines  twisting  through  the 
pales, 

The  crimson  cups  o'  the  hollyhocks, 
The  lilies,  in  white  veils  ; 

The  porch  with  morning-glories  gay, 
And  sunken  step,  the  well-sweep  tall, 

The  barn,  with  roof  'twixt  black  and 

gray, 
And  warpt,  wind-shaken  wall  ; 

The  garden  with  the  fence  of  stone, 
The  lane  so  dusky  at  the  close, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


Ill 


The  door-yard  gate  all  overgrown 
With  one  wild  smothering  rose  ; 

The  honeysuckle  that  has  blown 
His  trumpet  till  his  throat  is  red, 

And  the  wild  swallow,  mateless  flown 
Under  the  lonesome  shed  ; 

The    corn,    with    bean-pods    'showing 
through, 

The  fields  that  to  the  sunset  lean, 
The  crooked  paths  along  the  dew, 

Telling  of  flocks  unseen. 

The  bird  in  scarlet-colored  coat 
Flying  about  the  apple  tree  ; 

The  new  moon  in  her  shallow  boat, 
Sailing  alone,  you  see  ; 

The  aspen  at  the  window-pane,  — 
The     pair     of      bluebirds     on     the 
peach, — 

The  yellow  waves  of  ripening  grain, — 
You  see  them  ail  and  each. 

The  shadows  stretching  to  the  door, 
From  far-off  hills,  and  nearer  trees, 

I  cannot  show  you  any  more,  — 
The  landscape  holds  but  these. 

And  yet,  my  darling,  after  all 
'T  is  not  my  picture  you  behold  ; 

Your  house  is  ruined  near  to  fall,  — 
Your  flowers  are  dew  and  mould. 

I  wish  that  you  could  only  see, 

While  the' glad  garden  shines  its  best, 

The  little  rose  that  was  to  me 
The  queen  of  all  the  rest. 

The      bluebirds,  —  he      with      scarlet 
wings,  — 

The  silver  brook,  the  sunset  glow, 
To  me  are  but  the  signs  of  things 

The  landscape  cannot  show. 

That  old  house  was  our  home  —  not 

ours  ! 
You  were  not  born  —  how  could  it 

be? 

That  window  where  you  see  the  flow 
ers, 
Is  where  she  watched  for  me, 

So  pale,  so  patient,  night  by  night, 
Her  eyes  upon  this  pathway  here, 

Until  at  last  I  came  in  sight,  — 
Nay,  do  not  frown,  my  dear, 


That  was  another  world  !   and  so 
Between  us  there  can  be  no  strife  ; 

I  was  but  twenty,  you  must  know, 
And  she  my  baby-wife  ! 

Twin  violets  by  a  shady  brook 

Were   like   her   eyes,  —  their    beaute- 

ousness 

Was  in  a  rainy,  moonlight  look 
Of  tears  and  tenderness. 

Her  fingers  had  a  dewy  touch  ; 

Grace  was  in  all  her  modest  ways  ; 
Forgive  my  praising  her  so  much,  — 

She  cannot  hear  my  praise. 

Beneath  the  window  where  you  see 
The    trembling,  tearful  flowers,  she 
lay, 

Her  arms  as  if  they  reached  for  me, — 
Her  hair  put  smooth  away. 

The  closed  mouth  still  smiling  sweet, 
The  waxen  eyelids,  drooping  low, 

The  marriage-slippers  on  the  feet,  — 
The  marriage-dress  of  snow  ! 

And  still,  as  in  my  dreams,  I  do, 

I    kiss   the    sweet  white  hands,  the 
eyes  ; 

My  heart  with  pain  is  broken  anew, 
My  soul  with  sorrow  dies. 

It  was,  they  said,  her  spirit's  birth,  — 
That  she  was  gone,  a  saint  to  be  ; 

Alas  !  a  poor,  pale  piece  of  earth 
Was  all  that  I  could  see. 

In  tears,  my  darling  !  that  fair  brow 
With  jealous  shadows  overrun  ? 

A  score  of  flowers  upon  one  bough 
May  bloom  as  well  as  one  ! 

This    ragged    bush,    from    spring    to 
fall 

Stands  here  with  living  glories  lit ; 
And  every  flower  a-blush,  with  all 

That  doth  belong  to  it  ! 

Look  on  it  !  learn  the  lesson  then, — 
No  more  than  we  evoke,  is  ours  ! 

The  great  law  holdeth  good  with  men, 
The  same  as  with  the  flowers. 

And  if  that  lost,  that  sweet  white  hand 
Had  never  blessed  me  with  its  light, 

You  had  not  been,  you  understand, 
More  than  you  are  to-night. 


I  12 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


This  foolish  pride  that  women  have 
To  play  upon  us,  —  to  enthrall, 

To    absorb,    doth    hinder   what    they 

crave, — 
Their  being  loved  at  all  ! 

Never  the  mistress  of  the  arts 
They  practice  on  us,  still  again 

And  o'er  again,  they  wring  our  hearts 
With  pain  that  giveth  pain  ! 

They  make  their  tyranny  a  boast, 
And  in  their  petulance  will  not  see 

That  he  is  always  bound  the  most, 
Who  in  the  most  is  free  ! 

They  prize  us  more  for  what  they  screen 
From  censure,  than  for  what  is  best  ; 

And  you,  my  darling,  at  fifteen, 
Why,  you  are  like  the  rest ! 

Your  arms  would  find  me  now,  though  I 
Were  low  as  ever  guilt  can  fall ; 

And  that,  my  little  love,  is  why 
I  love  you,  after  all  ! 

Smiling  !  "  the  pain  is  worth  the  cost, 
That  wins  a  homily  so  wise  ?  " 

Ah,  little  tyrant,  I  am  lost, 
When  thus  you  tyrannize. 


JENNY  DUNLEATH. 

JENNY  DUNLEATH  coming  back  to  the 

town  ? 
What !  coming  back  here  for  good,  and 

for  all  ? 
Well,  that  's  the  last  thing  for  Jenny 

to  do,  — 
I  'd  go    to  the  ends  of  the   earth,  — 

would  n't  you  ? 
Before    I  'd  come   back !     She  '11    be 

pushed  to  the  wall. 
Some  slips,  I  can  tell  her,  are  never 

lived  down, 
And  she  ought  to  know  it.     It  's  really 

true, 
You  think,  that  she  's  coming  ?     How 

dreadfully  bold  ! 
But  one  don't  know  what  will  be  done, 

nowadays, 
And  Jenny  was  never  the  girl  to  be 

moved 
By  what  the  world  said  of  her.     What 

she  approved, 
She  would  do,  in  despite  of  its  blame 

or  its  praise. 


She  ought  to  be  wiser  by  this  time  — 

let  's  see  ; 
Why,  sure  as  you   live,    she    is   forty 

years  old  ! 
The  day  I  was   married   she  stood  up 

with  me, 
And  my  Kate  is  twenty  :  ah  yes,  it  must 

That  Jenny  is  forty,  at  least  —  forty- 
three, 
It  may  be,  or  four.     She  was  older,  I 

know, 
A  good  deal,  when  she  was  bridesmaid, 

than  I, 
And   that  's   twenty  years,   now,   and 

longer,  ago  ; 
So  if  she  intends   to  come  back  and 

deny 
Her  age,  as  't  is    likely  she  will,  I  can 

show 
The  plain  honest  truth,  by  the  age  of 

my  Kate, 
And  I  will,  too  !     To  see  an  old  maid 

tell  a  lie, 
Just  to  seem  to  be  young,  is  a  thing  that 

I  hate. 

You    thought  we   were   friends  ?     No, 

my  dear,  not  at  all  ! 
'T  is  true  we  were  friendly,  as  friendli 
ness  goes, 
But    one   gets   one's    friends   as    one 

chooses  one's  clothes, 
And  just  as  the  fashion  goes  out,  lets 

them  fall. 

I  will  not  deny  we  were  often  together 
About  the  time  Jenny  was  in  her  high 

feather  ; 
And  she  was  a  beauty  !     No  rose  of 

the  May 
Looked  ever  so   lovely  as  she  on  the 

day 
I  was  married.     She,  somehow,  could 

grace 
Whatever   thing    touched    her.      The 

knots  of  soft  lace 
On  her  little  white  shoes,  —  the  gay 

cap  that  half  hid 
Her   womanly  forehead,  —  the    bright 

hair  that  slid 

Like  sunshine  adown  her  bare  shoul 
ders, —  the  gauze 
That  rippled  about  her  sweet  arms,  just 

because 
'T  was  Jenny  that  wore  it,  —  the  flower 

in  her  belt,  — 
No  matter  what  color,  't  was  fittest,  you 

felt. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


If  she    sighed,    if   she    smiled,    if   she 

played  with  her  fan, 
A  sort  of  religious  coquettishness  ran 
Through    it    all,  —  a   bewitching   and 

wilclering  way, 
All    tearfully    tender    and    graciously 

gay- 

If  e'er  you  were  foolish  in  word  or  in 

speech, 
The  approval  she  gave  with  her  serious 

eyes 
Would    make    your    own    foolishness 

seem  to  you  wise  ; 
So  all  from  her  magical  presence,  and 

each, 
Went  happy  away  :   't  was  her  art  to 

confer 
A  self-love,  that  ended  in  your  loving 

her. 

And  so  she  is  coming  back  here  !  a 

mishap 
To  her  friends,  if  she  have  any  friends, 

one  would  say. 
Well,  well,  she  can't  take  her  old  place 

in  the  lap 
Of  holiday  fortune  :  her  head  must  be 

gray  ; 
And  those  dazzling  cheeks  !     I  would 

just  like  to  see 
How  she  looks,  if  I  could  without  her 

seeing  me. 

To  think  of  the  Jenny  Dunleath  that  I 

knew, 
A  dreary  old  maid  with  nobody  to  love 

her, — 
Her  hair  silver-white  and  no  roof-tree 

above  her,  — 
One    ought  to   have  pity  upon  her,  — 

'tis  true  ! 
But  I  never  liked  her  ;  in  truth,  I  was 

glad 
In  my  own  secret  heart  when  she  came 

to  her  fall  ; 

When  praise  of  her  meekness  was  ring 
ing  the  loudest 
I  always  would  say  she  was  proud  as 

the  proudest ; 
That   meekness  was  only  a  trick  that 

she  had,  — 
She  was  too  proud  to  seem  to  be  proud, 

that  was  all. 

She  stood  up  with  me,  I  was  saying  : 

that  day 
Was  the  last  of  her  going  abroad  for 

long  years  ; 


I  never  had  seen  her  so  bright  and  so 

gay, 

Yet,  spite  of  the  lightness,  I  had  my 

own  fears 
That  all  was  not  well  with  her :  't  was 

but  her  pride 
Made  her  sing  the  old  songs  when  they 

asked  her  to  sing, 
For  when  it  was  done  with,  and  we 

were  aside, 
A  look  wan  and  weary  came  over  her 

brow, 
And  still  I  can  feel  just  as  if  it  were 

now, 
How  she  slipped  up  and  down  on  my 

finger,  the  ring, 
And  so  hid  her  face  in  my  bosom  and 

cried. 

When   the    fiddlers   were    come,   and 

young  Archibald  Mill 
Was  dancing  with  Hetty,  I  saw  how  it 

was  ; 
Nor  was  I  misled  when  she  said  she 

was  ill, 
For   the  dews  were    not  standing  so 

thick  in  the  grass 
As  the  drops  on  her  cheeks.     So  you 

never  have  heard 
How  she  fell  in  disgrace  with  young 

Archibald  !     No  ? 
I  won't  be  the  first,  then,  to  whisper  a 

word,  — 
Poor  thing  !  if  she  only  repent,  let  it 

go! 

Let   it  go  !    let   what  go  ?     My  goo-d 

madam,  I  pray, 
Whereof  do  I  stand  here  accused  ?     I 

would  know,  — 
I   am  Jenny  Dunleath,  that  you  knew 

long  ago, 
A  dreary  old  maid,  and  unloved,  as  you 

say: 

God  keep  you,  my  sister,  from  know 
ing  such  woe ! 

Forty  years  old,  madam,  that  I  agree, 
The  roses  washed  out  of  my  cheeks  by 

the  tears  ; 
And  counting  my  barren  and  desolate 

years 
By   the   bright  little    heads   dropping 

over  your  knee, 
You  look  on  my  sorrow  with   scorn,  it 

appears. 

Well,  smile,  if  you  can,  as  you  hold  up 
in  sight 


114 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Your  matronly  honors,  for  all  men  to 
see  ; 

But  I  cannot  discern,  madam,  what 
there  can  be 

To  move  your  proud  mirth,  in  the  wild- 
ness  of  night 

Falling  round  me  ;  no  hearth  for  my 
coming  alight,  — 

No  rosy-red  cheeks  at  the  windows  for 


My  love  is  my  shame,  —  in  your  love 

you  are  crowned,  — 
But  as  we  are  women,  our  natures  are 

one  ; 
By  need  of  its  nature,  the  dew  and  the 

sun 
Belong  to  the  poorest,  pale  flower  o' 

the  ground. 
And  think  you  that  He  who  created  the 

heart 
Has  struck  it  all  helpless  and  hopeless 

apart 
From  these  lesser  works  ?    Nay,  I  hold 

He  has  bound 
Our  rights  with  our  needs  in  so  sacred 

a  knot, 
We  cannot  undo  them  with  any  mere 

lie; 
Nay,  more,  my  proud  lady,  —  the  love 

you  have  got, 
May    belong    to    another    as     dreary 

as  I  ! 
You  have  all  the  world's  recognition,  — 

your  bond,  — 
But  have  you  that  better  right,  lying 

beyond  ?  — 
Agreement    with    Conscience  ?  —  that 

sanction  whereby 
You  can  live  in  the  face  of  the  crudest 

scorns  ? 
Aye,  set  your  bare  bosom  against  the 

sharp  thorns 
Of  jealousy,  hatred,  —  against  all  the 

harms 
Bad   fortune   can    gather,  —  and    say, 

With  these  arms 
About  me,  I  stand  here  to  live  and  to 

die! 
I  take  you  to  keep  for  my  patron  and 

saint, 

And  you  shall  be  bound  by  that  sweet 
est  constraint 
Of  a  liberty  wide  as  the  love  that  you 

give  ; 
And  so   to  the  glory  of   God  we  will 

live, 


Through  health  and  through  sickness, 

dear  lover  and  friend, 
Through  light  and  through  darkness, 

—  through  all,  to  the  end  ! 

Let  it  go  !     Let  what  go  ?     Make  me 

answer,  I  pray. 
You  were  speaking  just  now  of  some 

terrible  fall,  — 
My  love  for  young  Archibald  Mill,  —  is 

that  all  ? 
I  loved  him  with  all  my  young  heart,  as 

you  say,  — 
Nay,  what  is  more,  madam,  I  love  him 

to-day,  — 
My  cheeks  thin  and  wan,  and  my  hair 

gray  on  gray  ! 
And  so  I  am  bold  to  come  back  to  the 

town, 
In  hope  that  at  last  I  may  lay  my  bones 

down, 
And  have  the  green  grasses  blow  over 

my  face, 
Among  the  old  hills  where  my  love  had 

its  birth  ! 
If   love  were  a   trifle,  the  morning   to 

grace, 
And  fade  when  the  night  came,  why, 

what  were  it  worth  ? 

He  is  married  !  and  I  am  come  hither 

too  late  ? 
Your  vision   misleads   you,  —  so   pray 

you,  untie 
That  knot  from  your  sweet  brow,  —  I 

come  here  to  die, 
And  not  make  a  moan  for  the  chances 

of  fate  ! 

I  know  that  all  love  that  is  true  is  di 
vine, 
And  when  this  low  incident,  Time,  shall 

have  sped, 
I  know  the  desire  of  my  soul  shall  be 

mine, — 
That,  weary,  or  wounded,  or  dying,  or 

dead. 
The    end    is    secure,  so    I   bear    the 

estate  — 
Despised  of  the  world's  favored  women 

—  and  wait. 


TRICKSEY'S    RING. 

O  WHAT  a  day  it  was  to  us,  — 
My  wits  were  upside  down, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


When  cousin  Joseph  Nicholas 
Came  visiting  from  town  ! 

His   curls    they  were  so   smooth   and 
bright, 

His  frills  they  were  so  fine, 
I  thought  perhaps  the  stars  that  night 

Would  be  ashamed  to  shine. 

But  when  the  dews   had   touched  the 
grass, 

They  came  out,  large  and  small, 
As  if  our  cousin  Nicholas 

Had  not  been  there  at  all ! 

Our  old  house  never  seemed  to  me 

So  poor  and  mean  a  thing 
As  then,  and  just  because  that  he 

Was  come  a-visiting  ! 

I  never  thought  the  sun  prolonged 

His  light  a  single  whit 
Too   much,  till   then,  nor   thought  he 
wronged 

My  face,  by  kissing  it. 

But  now  I  sought  to  pull  my  dress 

Of  faded  homespun  down, 
Because  my  cousin  Nicholas 

Would  see  my  feet  were  brown. 

The  butterflies  —  bright  airy  things  — 

From  off  the  lilac  buds 
I  scared,  for  having  on  their  wings 

The  shadows  of  the  woods. 

I  thought  my  straight  and  jet  black  hair 

Was  almost  a  disgrace, 
Since  Joseph  Nicholas  had  fair 

Smooth  curls  about  his  face. 

I  wished  our  rosy  window  sprays 
Were  laces,  dropping  down, 

That  he  might  think  we  knew  the  ways 
Of  rich  folks  in  the  town. 

I  wished  the  twittering  swallow  had 

A  finer  tune  to  sing, 
Since  such  a  stylish  city  lad 

Was  come  a-visiting. 

I  wished  tfys  hedges,  as  they  swayed, 

Were  each  a  solid  wall, 
And  that  our  grassy  lane  were  made 

A  market  street  withal. 

I  wished  the  drooping  heads  of  rye, 
Set  full  of  silver  dews, 


Were  silken  tassels  all  to  tie 
The  ribbons  of  his  shoes  ! 

And  when,  by  homely  household  slight, 
They  called  me  Tricksey  True, 

I  thought  my  cheeks  would  blaze,  in 

spite 
Of  all  that  I  could  do. 

Tricksey  !  —  that  name  would  surely  be 

A  shock  to  ears  polite  ; 
In  short  I  thought  that  nothing  we 

Could  say  or  do  was  right. 

For  injured  pride  I  could  have  wept, 

Until  my  heart  and  I 
Fell  musing  how  my  mother  kept 

So  equable  and  high. 

She  did  not  cast  her  eyelids  down, 

Ashamed  of  being  poor  ; 
To  her  a  gay  young  man  from  town, 

Was  no  discomfiture. 

She  reverenced  honor's  sacred  laws 
As  much,  aye  more  than  he, 

And  was  not  put  about  because 
He  had  more  gold  than  she  ; 

But  held  her  house  beneath  a  hand 

As  steady  and  serene, 
As  though  it  were  a  palace,  and 

As  though  she  were  a  queen. 

And  when  she  set  our  silver  cup 

Upon  the  cloth  of  snow, 
For  Nicholas,  I  lifted  up 

My  timid  eyes,  I  know  ; 

And  saw  a  ring,  as  needs  I  must, 
Upon  his  finger  shine  ; 

0  how  I  longed  to  have  it  just 
A  minute  upon  mine  ! 

1  thought  of  fairy  folk  that  led 
Their  lives  in  sylvan  shades, 

And  brought  fine  things,  as  I  had  read, 
To  little  rustic  maids. 

And  so  I  mused  within  my  heart, 

How  I  would  search  about 
The  fields  and  woodlands,  for  my  part, 

Till  I  should  spy  them  out. 

And  so  when  down  the  western  sky 
The  sun  had  dropped  at  last, 

Right  softly  and  right  cunningly 
From  out  the  house  I  passed. 


u6 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


It  was  as  if  awake  I  dreamed, 

All  Nature  was  so  sweet 
The  small  round  dandelions  seemed 

Like  stars  beneath  my  feet. 

Fresh  greenness  as  I  went  along 
The  grass  did  seem  to  take, 

And  birds  beyond  the  time  of  song 
Kept  singing  for  my  sake. 

The  dew  o'erran  the  lily's  cup, 
The  ground-moss  shone  so  well, 

That  if  the  sky  were  down  or  up, 
Was  hard  for  me  to  tell. 

I  never  felt  my  heart  to  sit 

So  lightly  on  its  throne  ; 
Ah,   who   knew  what   would  come  of 
it, 

With  fairy  folk  alone  ! 

An  hour,  —  another  hour  went  by, 

All  harmless  arts  T  tried, 
And  tried  in  vain,  and  wearily 

My  hopes  within  me  died. 

No  tent  of  moonshine,  and  no  ring 
Of  dancers  could  I  find,  — 

The  fairy  rich  folk  and  their  king 
For  once  would  be  unkind  ! 

My  spirit,  nameless  fear  oppressed  ; 

My  courage  went  adrift, 
As  all  out  of  the  low  dark  west 

The  clouds  began  to  lift. 

I  lost  my  way  within  the  wood,  — 
The  path  I  could  not  guess, 

When,  Heaven  be  praised,  before  me 

stood 
My  cousin  Nicholas  ! 

Right  tenderly  within  his  arm 
My  shrinking  hand  he  drew  ; 

He  spoke  so  low,  "  these  damps  will 

harm 
My  little  Tricksey  True." 

I  know  not  how  it  was  :  my  shame 
In  new  delight  was  drowned  ; 

His  accent  gave  my  rustic  name 
Almost  a  royal  sound. 

He  bent  his  cheek  against  my  face,  — 

He  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"  Why  came  you  to  this  dismal  place  ? 

Tell  me,  my  little  dear  !  " 


Betwixt  the  boughs  that  o'er  us  hung 

The  light  began  to  fall  ; 
His  praises  loosed  my  silent  tongue, — 

At  last  I  told  him  all. 

I  felt  his  lips  my  forehead  touch  ; 

I  shook  and  could  not  stand  ; 
The  ring  I  coveted  so  much 

Was  shining  on  my  hand  ! 

We  talked  about  the  little  elves 

And  fairies  of  the  grove, 
And  then  we  talked  about  ourselves, 

And  then  we  talked  of  love. 

'T  was  at  the  ending  of  the  lane,  — 

The  garden  yet  to  pass, 
I  offered  back  his  ring  again 

To  my  good  Nicholas. 

"  Dear  Tricksey,  don't  you  understand, 

You  foolish  little  thing," 
He  said,  "  that  I  must  have  the  hand, 

As  well  as  have  the  ring  ?  " 

"To-night — just   now!     I    pray   you 

wait  ! 

The  hand  is  little  worth  !  " 
"  Nay  darling  —  now  !   we  're   at   the 

gate  !  " 
And  so  he  had  them  both  ! 


CRAZY  CHRISTOPHER. 

NEIGHBORED  by  a  maple  wood, 
Dim  and  dusty,  old  and  low  ; 

Thus  our  little  school-house  stood, 
Two  and  twenty  years  ago. 

On  the  roof  of  clapboards,  dried 
Smoothly  in  the  summer  heat, 

Of  the  hundred  boys  that  tried, 
Never  one  could  keep  his  feet. 

Near  the  door  the  cross-roads  were, 
A  stone's  throw,  perhaps,  away, 

And  to  read  the  sign-board  there, 
Made  a  pastime  every  day. 

He  who  turned  the  index  down, 
So  it  pointed  on  the  sign 

To  the  nearest  market-town, 

Was,  we  thought,  a  painter  fine  : 

And  the  childish  wonder  rose, 
As  we  gazed  with  puzzled  looks 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


117 


On  the  letters,  good  as  those 
Printed  in  our  spelling-books. 

Near  it  was  a  well,  —  how  deep  ! 

With  its  bucket  warped  and  dry, 
Broken  curb,  and  leaning  sweep, 

And  a  plum-tree  growing  by, 

Which,  with  low  and  tangly  top, 
Made  the  grass  so  bright  and  cool, 

Travelers  would  sometimes  stop, 
For  a  half-hour's  rest  —  in  school, 

Not  an  eye  could  keep  the  place 
Of  the  lesson  then,  — intent 

Each  to  con  the  stranger's  face, 
And  to  see  the  road  he  went. 

Scattered  are  we  far  and  wide,  — 
Careless,  curious  children  then  ; 

Wanderers  some,  and  some  have  died  ; 
Some,  thank  God,  are  honest  men. 

But,  as  playmates,  large  or  small, 
Noisy,  thoughtful,  or  demure, 

I  can  see  them,  one  and  all, 
The  great  world  in  miniature. 

Common  flowers,  with  common  names, 
Filled     the     woods     and     meadows 
round  : 

Dandelions  with  their  flames 

Smothered  flat  against  the  ground  ; 

Mullein  stocks,  with  gray  braids  set 
Full  of   yellow  ;  thistles  speared  ; 

Violets,  purple  near  to  jet ; 

Crowfoot,  and  the  old-man's-beard. 

And  along  the  dusty  way, 

Thick  as  prints  of  naked  feet, 

Iron-weeds  and  fennel  gay 

Blossomed  in  the  summer  heat. 

Hedges  of  wild  blackberries, 
Pears,  and  honey-locusts  tall, 

Spice-wood,  and  "good  apple-trees," 
Well  enough  we  knew  them  all. 

But  the  ripest  blackberries, 

Nor  the  mulleins  topped  with  gold, 

Peach  nor  honey-locust  trees. 

Nor  the  flowers,  when  all  are  told, 

Pleased  us  like  the  cabin,  near 

Which  a  silver  river  ran, 
And  where  lived,  for  many  a  year, 

Christopher,  the  crazy  man. 


Hair  as  white  as  snow  he  had, 
Mixing  with  a  beard  that  fell 

Down  his  breast ;  if  he  were  mad, 
Passed  our  little  wits  to  tell. 

In  his  eyes'  unfathomed  blue 

Burned  a  ray  so  clear  and  bright, 

Oftentimes  we  said  we  knew 
It  would  shame  the  candlelight. 

Mystic  was  the  life  he  led  ; 

Picking  herbs  in  secret  nooks,  — 
Finding,  as  the  old  folks  said, 

"  Tongues  in  trees  and   books   in 
brooks." 

Waking  sometimes  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  solemn  middle  night, 

He  had  seen  his  narrow  room 
Full  of  angels  dressed  in  white  ; 

So  he  said  in  all  good  faith, 
And  one  day,  with  tearful  eye, 

Told  us  that  he  heard  old  Death 
Sharpening  his  scythe,  close  by. 

Whether  it  were  prophecy, 
Or  a  dream,  I  cannot  say  ; 

But  good  little  Emily 

Died  the  evening  of  that  day. 

In  the  woods,  where  up  and  down 
We  had  searched,  and  only  seen 

Adder's  -  tongue,    with    dull,    dead 

brown, 
Mottled  with  the  heavy  green  ; 

May-apples,  or  wild  birds  sweet, 
Going  through  the  shadows  dim, 

Spirits,  with  white,  noiseless  feet, 
Walked,  he  said,  and  talked  with 
him. 

"  What  is  all  the  toiling  for, 

And    the    spinning  ? "     he    would 
say; 

"  See  the  lilies  at  my  door,  — 
Never  dressed  a  queen  as  they. 


"  He  who  gives  the  ravens  food 
For  our  wants  as  well  will  care 

O  my  children  !  He  is  good,  — 
Better  than  your  fathers  are." 

So  he  lived  from  year  to  year, 
Never  toiling,  mystery-clad,  — 

Spirits,  if  they  did  appear, 
Being  all  the  friends  he  had. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Alternating  seasons  sped, 

And  there  fell  no  night  so  rough, 
But  his  cabin  fire,  he  said, 

Made  it  light  and  warm  enough. 

Soft  and  slow  our  steps  would  be, 

As  the  silver  river  ran, 
Days  when  we  had  been  to  see 

Christopher,  the  crazy  man. 

Soft  and  slow,  to  number  o'er 
The  delights  he  said  he  had  ; 

Wondering  always,  more  and  more, 
Whether  he  were  wise  or  mad. 

On  a  hill-side  next  the  sun, 

Where  the  school-boys  quiet  keep, 
And  to  seed  the  clovers  run, 

He  is  lying,  fast  asleep. 

But  at  last  (to  Heaven  be  praise), 

Gabriel  his  bed  will  find, 
Giving  love  for  lonely  days, 

And  for  visions,  his  right  mind. 

Sometimes,  when  I  think  about 
How  he  lived  among  the  flowers, 

Gently  going  in  and  out, 

With  no  cares  nor  fretful  hours, — 

Of  the  deep  serene  of  light, 

In  his  blue,  unfathomed  eyes, — 

Seems  the  childish  fancy  right, 
That  could  half  believe  him  wise. 


THE   FERRY   OF  GALLAWAY. 

Ix  the  stormy  waters  of  Gallaway 
My  boat  had   been   idle   the   livelong 

.  day> 

Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro, 
For  the  wind  was  high  and  the  tide  was 
low. 

The  tide  was  low  and  the  wind  was 

high, 

And  we  were  heavy,  my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveler  all  the  day 
Had  crossed  the  ferry  of  Gallaway. 

At  set  o'  th'  sun,  the  clouds  out 
spread 

Like  wings  of  darkness  overhead, 

When,  out  o'  th'  west,  my  eyes  took 
heed 

Of  a  lady,  riding  at  full  speed. 


The  hoof-strokes  struck  on  the  flinty 

hill 

Like  silver  ringing  on  silver,  till 
I  saw  the  veil  in  her  fair  hand  float, 
And  flutter  a  signal  for  my  boat. 

The  waves  ran  backward  as  if  'ware 
Of  a  presence  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  mv  little  craft  leaned  down  and 

lay 

With  her  side  to  th'  sands  o'  th'  Galla 
way. 

"  Haste,  good  boatman  !  haste  ! "  she 

cried, 

"  And  row  me  over  the  other  side  !  " 
And    she   stript  from   her  ringer   the 

shining  ring, 
And  gave  it  me  for  the  ferrying. 

"  Woe  's  me  !  my  Lady,  I  may  not  go, 
For  the  wind  is  high  and  th'  tide  is  low, 
And  rocks  like  dragons  lie  in  the 

wave,  — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  you 

gave!"" 

"  Nay,   nay !    for    the    rocks    will    be 

melted  down, 
And  the  waters,  they  never  will  let  me 

drown, 
And  the    wind   a   pilot  will    prove   to 

thee, 
For  my  dying  lover,  he  waits  for  me  !  " 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  spur 
She  put  in  my  hand,  but   I  answered 

her  : 
"  The    wind    is   high   and  the    tide  is 

low,  — 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  and  will  not  go  !  " 

Her  face  grew  deadly  white  with  pain, 
And  she  took  her  champing  steed  by 

th'  mane, 
And  bent  his  neck  to  th'  ribbon    and 

spur 
That  lay  in  my  hand,  —  but  I  answered 

her : 

"  Though  you  should  proffer  me  twice 

and  thrice 
Of    ring    and   ribbon    and   steed,    the 

price,  — 
The    leave    of  kissing    your    lily-like 

hand  ! 
I    never    could    row   you   safe   to   th' 

land." 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


119 


"  Then  God  have  mercy  !  "  she  faintly 

cried, 

"  For  my  lover  is  dying  the  other  side  ! 
O  cruel,  O  cruellest  Gallaway, 
Be   parted,    and   make   me   a   path,    I 

pray  !  " 

Of  a  sudden,  the  sun  shone  large  and 

bright 

As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night, 
And  the  rain  on  the  river  fell  as  sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's  feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge  to 

edge 
A   rainbow    stretched    like    a    golden 

bridge, 

And  I  put  the  rein  in  her  hand  so  fair, 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle,  th'  queen 

o'  th'  air. 

And  over  the  river,  from  edge  to  edge, 
She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shimmer 
ing  bridge, 

And  landing  safe  on  the  farther  side,  — 
"  Love  is  thy  conqueror,  Death  !  "  she 
cried. 


REVOLUTIONARY   STORY. 

"GOOD  mother, what  quaint  legend  are 

you  reading, 

In  that  old-fashioned  book  ? 
Beside  your  door  I  've  been  this  half- 
hour  pleading 
All  vainly  for  one  look. 

"  About  your  chair  the  little  birds  fly 

bolder 

Than  in  the  woods  they  fly, 
With  heads  dropt  slantwise,  as  if  o'er 

your  shoulder 
They  read  as  they  went  by ; 

"  Each  with  his   glossy  collar  ruffling 

double 

Around  his  neck  so  slim, 
Even    as    with    that     atmosphere     of 

trouble, 
Through  which  our  blessings  swim. 

"  Is  it  that  years  throw  on  us  chillier 

shadows, 

The  longer  time  they  run, 
That,  with  your  sad  face  fronting  yon 
der  meadows, 
You  creep  into  the  sun  ? 


"  I  '11   sit   upon   the   ground  and  hear 

your  story." 

Sadly  she  shook  her  head, 
And,  pushing  back  the  thin,  white  veil 

of  glory 
'Twixt  her  and  heaven,  she  said  : 

"  Ah  !  wondering  child,  I  knew  not  of 

your  pleading  ; 

My  thoughts  were  chained,  indeed, 
Upon  my  book,  and  yet  what  you  call 

reading 
I  have  no  skill  to  read. 

"  There  was  a  time  once  when  I  had  a 

lover ; 

Why  look  you  in  such  doubt  ? 
True,  I  am  old  now  —  ninety  years  and 

over :  " 
A  crumpled  flower  fell  out 

From  'twixt  the  book-leaves.    "  Seventy 

years  they  've  pressed  it : 
'T  was  like  a  living  flame, 
When  he  that  plucked  it,  by  the  pluck 
ing  blessed  it  ;  " 
I  knew  the  smile  that  came, 

And  flickered  on  her  lips  in  wannish 

splendor, 

Was  lighted  at  that  flower, 
For  even  yet   its   radiance,  faint   and 

tender, 
Reached  to  its  primal  hour. 

"  God  bless  you  !  seventy  years  since 

it  was  gathered  ?  " 
"  Aye,  I  remember  well  ;  " 
And  in  her  old  hand,  palsy-struck,  and 

withered, 
She  held  it  up  to  smell. 

"  And   is   it  true,  as    poets   say,   good 
mother, 

That  love  can  never  die  ? 
And  that  for  all  it  gives  unto  another 

It  grows  the  richer  ?  "     "  Aye, 

"  The  white  wall-brier,  from  spring  till 

summer  closes, 
All  the  great  world  around, 
Hangs  by  its  thorny  arms  to  keep  its 

roses 
From  off  the  low,  black  ground  ; 

"And  love  is  like  it :  sufferings  but  try 

it; 
Death  but  evokes  the  might 


120 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


That,  all,  too  mighty  to  be  thwarted  by  it, 
Breaks  through  into  the  light." 

"  Then  frosty  age  may  wrap  about  its 

bosom 
The  light  of  fires  long  dead  ?  " 

Kissing  the  piece  of  dust  she  called  a 

blossom, 
She  shut  the  book,  and  said  : 

"  You  see  yon  ash-tree  with  its  thick 

leaves,  blowing 

The  blue  side  out  ?  (Great  Power, 
Keep  its  head  green  !  )  My  sweetheart, 

in  the  mowing 
Beneath  it  found  my  flower. 

"  A  mile  off  all  that  day  the  shots  were 

flying, 

And  mothers,  from  the  door, 
Looked  for  the  sons,  who,  on  their  faces 


n£> 
ld  co 


Would  come  home  never  more. 

"  Across  the  battle-field  the  dogs  went 

whining  ; 

I  saw,  from  where  I  stood, 
Horses    with     quivering     flanks,    and 

strained  eyes,  shining 
Like  thin  skins  full  of  blood. 

"  Brave  fellows  we  had  then  :  there  was 

my  neighbor,  — 
The  British  lines  he  saw  ; 
Took  his  old  scythe  and  ground  it  to  a 

sabre, 
And  mowed  them  down  like  straw  ! 

"  And  there  were  women,  then,  of  giant 

spirit,  — 

Nay,  though  the  blushes  start, 
The  garments  their  degenerate  race  in 

herit 
Hang  loose  about  the  heart. 

"  Where  was  I,  child  ?  how  is  my  story 

going  ?  " 

"  Why,  where  by  yonder  tree 
With  leaves  so  rough  your  sweetheart, 

in  the  mowing, 
Gathered  your  flower  !  "     "  Ah  me  ! 

"  My  poor  lad  dreamed  not  of  the  red 
coat  devil, 

That,  just  for  pastime,  drew 
To  his  bright  epaulet  his  musket  level, 

And  shot  him  through  and  tli  rough. 


"  Beside  him  I  was  kneeling  the  next 

minute  ; 

From  the  red  grass  he  took 
The  shattered  hand  up,  and  the  flower 

was  in  it 
You  saw  within  my  book." 

"  He   died."     "  Then    you  have   seen 

some  stormy  weather  ?  " 
"  Aye,  more  of  foul  than  fair  ; 
And   all   the    snows    we    should   have 

shared  together 
Have  fallen  on  my  hair." 

"  And  has  your  life  been  worth  the  liv 
ing,  mother, 

With  all  its  sorrows  ?  "     "  Aye, 
I  'd   live   it  o'er  again,  were  there  no 

other, 
For  this  one  memory." 

I  answered  soft,  —  I  felt  the  place  was 

holy  — 

One  maxim  stands  approved  : 
"  They  know  the  best  of  life,  however 

lowly, 
Who  ever  have  been  loved." 


THE  DAUGHTER. 

ALACK,  it  is  a  dismal  night  — 
In  gusts  of  thin  and  vapory  light 
The  moonshine  overbloweth  quite 
The  fretful  bosom  of  the  storm, 
That  beats  against,  but  cannot  harm 
The   lady,  whose  chaste   thoughts  do 

charm 

Better  than  pious  fast  or  prayer 
The  evil  spells  and  sprites  of  air  — 
In  sooth,  were  she  in  saintly  care 
Safer  she  could  not  be  than  now 
With    truth's    white    crown   upon   he* 

brow  — 

So  sovereign,  innocence,  art  thou. 
Just  in  the  green  top  of  a  hedge 
That  runs  along  a  valley's  edge 
One  star  has  thrust  a  golden  wedge, 
And  all  the  sky  beside  is  drear  — 
It  were  no  cowardice  to  fear 
If  some  belated  traveler  near, 
To  visionary  fancies  born, 
Should  see  upon  the  moor,  forlorn, 
With  spiky  thistle  burs  and  thorn  ; 
The  lovely  lady  silent  go, 
Not  on  a  "  palfrey  white  as  snow," 
But  with  sad  eyes  and  footsteps  slow ; 
And  softly  leading  by  the  hand 
An  old  man  who  has  nearly  spanned, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


121 


With  his  white  hairs,  life's  latest  sand. 
Hope  in  her  faint  heart  newly  thrills 
As  down  a  barren  reach  of  hills 
Before  her  fly  two  whippoorwills  ; 
But  the  gray  owl  keeps  up  his  wail  — 
His  feathers  ruffled  in  the  gale, 
Drowning  almost  their  dulcet  tale. 
Often  the  harmless  flock  she  sees 
Lying  white  along  the  grassy  leas, 
Like  lily-bells  weighed  down  with  bees. 
And  now  and  then  the  moonlight  snake 
Curls  up  its  white  folds,  for  her  sake, 
Closer  within  the  poison  brake. 
But  still  she  keeps  her  lonesome  way, 
Or  if  she  pauses,  'tis  to  say 
Some  word  of  comfort,  else  to  pray. 
What  doth  the  gentle  lady  here 
Within  a  wood  so  dark  and  drear, 
Nor  hermit's  lodge  nor  castle  near  ? 
See  in  the  distance  robed  and  crowned 
A  prince  with  all  his  chiefs  around, 
And  like  sweet  light  o'er  sombre  ground 
A  meek  and  lovely  lady,  there 
Proffering  her  earnest,  piteous  prayer 
For  an  old  man  with  silver  hair. 
But  what  of  evil  he  hath  done, 
O'erclouding  beauty's  April  sun, 
I  know  not  —  nor  if  lost  or  won, 
The  lady's  pleading,  sweet  and  low  — 
About  her  pilgrimage  of  woe, 
Is  all  that  I  shall  ever  know. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  LOVE. 

"THERE  is  work,  good  man,  for  you 

to-day  !  " 

So  the  wife  of  Jamie  cried, 
"  For  a  ship  at  Garl'ston,  on  Solway, 
Is  beached,  and  her  coal 's  to  be  got 

away 
At  the  ebbing  time  of  tide." 

"And,  lassie,  would  you  have  me  start, 

And  make  for  Solway  sands  ? 
You  know  that  I,  for  my  poor  part, 
To  help  me,  have  nor  horse  nor  cart  — 
I  have  only  just  my  hands  !  " 

"  But,  Jamie,  be  not,  till  ye  try, 
Of  honest  chances  balked  ; 
For,  mind  ye,  man,  I  '11  prophesy 
That  while  the  old  ship  's  high  and  dry 
Her  master  '11  have  her  calked." 

And  far  and  near  the  men  were  pressed, 

As  the  wife  saw  in  her  dreams. 
"Aye,"    Jamie    slid,    "she    knew    the 
best," 


As  he  went  under  with  the  rest 
To  calk  the  open  seams. 

And  while  the  outward-flowing  tide 

Moaned  like  a  dirge  of  woe, 
The  ship's   mate  from   the   beach-belt 

cried  : 

"  Her  hull  is  heeling  toward  the  side 
Where  the  men  are  at  work  be 
low  ! " 

And  the  cartmen,  wild  and  open-eyed, 

Made  for  the  Solway  sands  — 
Men  heaving  men  like  coals  aside, 
For  now  it  was  the  master  cried  : 

"  Run  for  your  lives,  all  hands  !  " 

Like  dead  leaves  in  the  sudden  swell 

Of  the  storm,  upon  that  shout, 
Brown  hands  went  fluttering  up  and  fell, 
As,  grazed  by  the  sinking  planks,  pell 

mell 
The  men  came  hurtling  out ! 

Thank  God,  thank  God,  the  peril's  past ! 

"  No  !  no  !  "  with  blanching  lip, 
The  master  cries.  "  One  man,  the  last, 
Is  caught,  drawn  in,  and  grappled  fast 

Betwixt  the  sands  and  the  ship  !  " 

"  Back,  back,  all  hands  !  Get  what  you 
can  — 

Or  pick,  or  oar,  or  stave." 
This  way  and  that  they  breathless  ran, 
And  came  and  fell  to,  every  man, 

To  dig  him  out  of  his  grave  ! 

"  Too   slow  !   too   slow  !     The  weight 
will  kill  ! 

Up  make  your  hawsers  fast !  " 
Then  every  man  took  hold  with  a  will  — 
A  long  pull  and  a  strong  pull  —  still 

With  never  a  stir  o'  th'  mast! 

"  Out  with  the  cargo  !  "  Then  they  go 
At  it  with  might  and  main. 

"  Back  to  the  sands  !  too  slow,  too  slow  ! 

He  's  dying,  dying!  yet,  heave  ho  ! 
Heave  ho  !  there,  once  again  !  " 

And  now  on  the  beach   at    Garl'ston 

stood 

A  woman  whose  pale  brow  wore 
Its  love  like  a  queenly  crown  ;  and  the 

blood 
Ran  curdled  and  cold  as  she  watched 

the  flood 
That  was  racing  in  to  the  shore. 


122 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


On,  on  it  trampled,  stride  by  stride. 

It  was  death  to  stand  and  wait ; 
And  all  that  were  free  threw  picks  aside, 
And  came  up  dripping  out  o'  th'  tide, 

And  left  the  doomed  to  his  fate. 

But  lo  !  the  great  sea  trembling  stands  ; 

Then,  crawling  under  the  ship, 
As  if  for  the  sake   of   the   two  white 

hands 
Reaching  over  the  wild,  wet  sands, 

Slackened  that  terrible  grip. 

"  Come  to  me,  Jamie  !    God  grants  the 

way," 

She  cries,  "for  lovers  to  meet." 
And  the  sea,  so  cruel,  grew  kind,  they 

say, 
And,  wrapping  him  tenderly  round  with 

spray, 
Laid  him  dead  at  her  feet. 


"THE  GRACE  WIFE  OF  KEITH." 

No  whit  is  gained,  do  you  say  to  me, 
In   a   hundred   years,  nor   in  two  nor 

three, 

In  wise  things,  nor  in  holy  — 
No  whit  since  Bacon  trod  his  ways, 
And  William   Shakespeare   wrote    his 

plays  ! 
Aye,  aye,  the  world  moves  slowly. 

But  here  is  a  lesson,  man,  to  heed ; 
I    have   marked   the  pages,  open  and 
read  ; 

We  are  yet  enough  unloving, 
Given  to  evil  and  prone  to  fall, 
But  the  record  will  show  you,  after  all, 

That  still  the  world  keeps  moving. 

All    in  the    times    of   the   good    King 
James  — 

I    have   marked  the   deeds   and   their 

doers'  names. 
And  over  my  pencil  drawing  — 

One  Geillis  Duncan  standeth  the  first 

For  helping  of  "  anie  kinde  sick"  ac 
cursed, 

And      doomed,     without      trial,     to 
"  thr awing." 

Read  of  her  torturers  given  their  scope 
Of  wrenching  and   binding  her  head 

with  a  rope, 
Of  taunting  her  word  and  her  honor, 


And  of  searching  her  body  sae  pure 

and  fair 
From  the  lady-white  feet  to  the  gouden 

hair 
For  the  wizard's  mark  upon  her  ! 

Of  how  through  fair  coaxings  and  ago 
nies'  dread 

She   came    to   acknowledge   whatever 
they  said, 

And,  lastly,  her  shaken  wits  losing, 

To   prattle    from    nonsense    and    blas 
phemies  wild 

To  the  silly  entreaties  and  tears  of  a 

child, 
And  then  to  the  fatal  accusing. 

First  naming  Euphemia  Macalzean, 
A  lord's  young  daughter,  and  fair  as  a 

queen  ; 

Then    Agnes,    whose    wisdom    sur 
passed  her ; 
"Grace  Wyff  of  Keith,"  so  her  sentence 

lies, 

"  Adjudged  at  Holyrood  under  the  eyes 
Of  the  King,  her  royal  master." 

Oh,  think  of  this  Grace  wife,  fine  and 

tall, 
With  a  witch's  bridle  tied  to  the  wall ! 

Her  peril  and  pain  enhancing 
With  owning  the  lie  that  on  Hallowmas 

Eve 

She  with  a  witch  crew  sailed  in  a  sieve 
To  Berwick  Church,  for  a  dancing  ! 

Think  of   her  owning,  through  brain 
sick  fright 
How  Geillis  a  Jew's-harp  played  that 

night, 

And  of  Majesty  sending  speady 
Across  the  border  and  far  away 
For  that  same  Geillis  to  dance  and  play, 
Of  infernal  news  made  greedy  ! 

Think  of  her  true  tongue  made  to  tell 
How  she  had  raised  a  dog  from  a  well 

To  conjure  a  Lady's  daughters  : 
And  how  she  had  gript  him  neck  and 

skin, 
And,  growling,  thrust  him  down  and  in 

To  his  hiding  under  the  waters  ! 

How   Rob   the    Rower,    so   stout  and 

brave, 
Helped  her  rifle  a  dead  man's  grave, 

And  how,  with  enchantments  arming, 
Husbands  false  she  had  put  in  chains, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


123 


And  gone   to   the  beds  of  women  in 

pains 

And  brought  them  through  by  charm 
ing  ! 

Think  of  her  owning  that  out  at  sea 
The  Devil  had  marked  heron  the  knee, 
And  think  of  the  prelates  round  her 
Twitching    backward    their    old    gray 

hairs 
And  bowing  themselves  to  their  awful 

prayers 
Before  they  took  her  and  bound  her  ! 

The   world   moves !     Witch-fires,    say 

what  you  will 
Are  lighted  no  more  on  the  Castle  Hill 

By  the  breath  of  a  crazy  story  ; 
Nor  are  men  riven  at  horses'  tails, 
Or  done   to    death   through   pincered 

nails, 
In  the  name  of  God  and  his  glory. 

The  world  moves  on  !    Say  what  you 

can, 
No  more  may  a  maiden's  love  for  a  man, 

Into  scorn  and  hatred  turning, 
Wrap  him  in  rosin  stiff  and  stark, 
And  roll  him  along  like  a  log  in  its  bark 

To  the  place  of  fiery  burning. 

And  such  like  things  were  done  in  the 

days 
When  one  Will  Shakespeare  wrote  his 

plays  ; 
And    when    Bacon    thought,    for    a 

wonder : 
And  when  Luther  had  hurled,  at  the 

spirit's  call, 

Inkstand,  Bible,  himself,  and  all 
At  the  head  of  the  Papal  thunder. 


JOHNNY  RIGHT. 

JOHNNY  RIGHT,  his  hand  was  brown, 

And  so  was  his  honest,  open  face, 
For  the   sunshine  kissed  him  up  and 

down, 

But  Johnny  counted  all  for  grace  ; 
And  when  he  looked  in  the  glass  at 

night 

He  said   that  brown  was   as  good  as 
white  ! 

A  little  farm  our  Johnny  owned, 

Some  pasture-fields,  both  green  and 
good, 


A  bit  of  pleasant  garden  ground, 

A  meadow,  and  a  strip  of  wood. 
"  Enough  for  any  man,"  said  John, 
"  To  earn  his  livelihood  upon  !  " 

Two  oxen,  speckled  red  and  white, 
And  a  cow  that  gave  him  a  pail  of 
milk, 

He  combed  and  curried  morn  and  night 
Until  their  coats  were  as  soft  as  silk. 

"  Cattle  on  all  the  hills,"  said  he, 

"  Could  give  no  more  of  joy  to  me." 

He  never  thought  the  world  was  wrong 
Because   rough  weather   chanced   a 

day  ; 
"  The  night  is  always  hedged  along 

With  daybreak  roses,  he  would  say  ; 
He  did  not  ask  for  manna,  but  said, 
"  Give  me  but  strength  —  I  will  get  the 
bread  !  " 

Kindly  he  took  for  good  and  all 

Whatever  fortune  chanced  to  bring, 
And  he  never  wished  that  spring  were 

fall, 
And  he  never  wished  that  fall  were 

spring  ; 

But  set  the  plough  with  a  joy  akin 
To  the  joy  of  putting  the  sickle  in. 

He  never  stopped  to  sigh  "  Oho  !  " 
Because  of  the  ground  he  needs  must 

till, 
For  he  knew  right  well  that  a  man  must 

sow 
Before  he  can  reap,  and  he  sowed 

with  a  will ; 
And  still  as  he  went  to  his  rye-straw 

bed, 
"Work  brings  the  sweetest  of  rest,"  he 

said. 

Johnny's  house  was  little  and  low, 
And  his  fare  was  hard  ;  and  that  was 
why 

He  used  to  say,  with  his  cheeks  aglow, 
That  he  must  keep  his  heart  up  high  : 

Aye,  keep  it  high,  and  keep  it  light ! 

He  used  to  say  — wise  Johnny  Right  ! 

He  never  fancied  one  was  two  ; 

But   according   to    his    strength    he 

planned. 
And   oft  to  his  Meggy  would  say  he 

knew 

That  gold  was  gold,  a.nd   sand  was 
sand; 


124 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  that  each  was  good  and  best  in  its 

place, 
For  he  counted  everything  for  grace. 

Now  Meggy  Right  was  Meggy  Wrong, 

For  things  with  her  went~all  awry  ; 
She  always  found  the  day  too  long 
Or   the    day   too   short,    and   would 

mope  and  sigh  ; 
For,  somehow,  the  time  and  place  that 

were, 
Were  never  the  time  and  place  for  her  ! 

"  O  Johnny,  Johnny  !  "  she  used  to  say, 
If  she   saw  a  cloud   in   the    sky  at 

morn, 

"  There  will  be  a  hurricane  to-day  ;  " 
Or,  "  The  rain  will  come  and  drench 

the  corn  !  " 

And  Johnny  would  answer  with  a  smile, 
"  Wait,  dear  Meggy,  wait  for  a  while  !  " 

And  often  before  an  ear  was  lost, 

Or  a  single  hope  of  the  harvest  gone, 
She  would  cry,  "  Suppose  there  should 

fall  a  frost, 
What   should  we  do   then,  John,  O 

John  !  " 
And    Johnny   would    answer,    rubbing 

his  thumbs, 
"  Wait,  dear  Meggy,  wait  till  it  comes  !  " 

But  when  she  saw  the  first  gray  hair, 
Her  hands  together  she  wrung  and 

wrung, 

And  cried,  in  her  wicked  and  weak  de 
spair, 
"  Ah,  for  the  day  when  we  both  were 

young  !  " 
And    Johnny    answered,    kissing    her 

brow, 

"  Then     was     then,     Meg  —  now     is 
now  !  " 

And  when  he  spectacles  put  on, 

And  read  at  ease  the  paper  through, 
She    whimpered,    "  Oh,    hard-hearted 

John, 

It  is  n't  the  way  you  used  to  do  !  " 
And  Johnny,  wiser  than  wiser  men, 
Said,  "  Now  is  now,  Meg  —  then  was 
then  !  " 

So  night  and  day,  with  this  and  that, 
She  gave  a  bitter  to  all  the  bliss, 

Now  for  Johnny  to  give  her  a  hat, 
And  now  for  Johnny  to  give  her  a 
kiss, 


Till,  patience  failing,  he  cried,  "  Peg, 

Peg  ! 
You  're  enough  to  turn  a  man's  head, 

Meg!" 

Oh,  then  she  fell  into  despair  — 

No  coaxing  could  her  temper  mend  ; 

For  her  part  now  she  did  n't  care 
How  soon  her  sad  life  had  an  end. 

And  Johnny,  sneering,  made  reply, 

"  Well,    Meg,   don't    die    before    you 
die  !  " 

Then  foolish  Meg  began  to  scold, 

And  call  her  Johnny  ugly  names  ; 
She  wished  the  little  farm  was  sold, 
And    that    she    had    no   household 

claims, 

So  that  she  might  go  and  starve  or  beg, 
And    Johnny    answered,     "  O     Meg, 
Meg  !  " 

Ah,  yes,  she  did  —  she  did  n't  care  ! 

That  were  a  living  to  prefer  ; 
What  had  she  left  to  save  despair  ? 

A  man  that  did  n't  care  for  her  ! 
Indeed,  in  truth  she  'd  rather  go  ! 
"  Don't,    Meg,"    says   Johnny,    "  don't 
say  so  !  " 

She  left  his  stockings  all  undarned, 
She  set  his  supper  for  him  cold  ; 

And  every  day  she  said  she  yearned 
To  have  the  hateful  homestead  sold. 

She  could  n't  live,  and  would  n't  try  ! 

John  only  answered  with  a  sigh. 

Passing  the  tavern  one  cold  night, 
Says  Johnny,  "  I  've  a  mind  to  stop, 

It  looks  so  cheery  and  so  bright 
Within,  and  take  a  little  drop, 

And   then    I  '11   go    straight    home    to 
Meg." 

There  was  the  serpent  in  the  egg. 

He  stopped,  alas,  alas  for  John. 

That    careless    step  foredoomed  his 

fall. 
Next  year  the  little  farm  was  gone,  — 

Corn  fields  and  cattle,  house  and  all  ; 
And  Meggy  learned  too  late,  too  late, 
Her  own  self  had  evoked  her  fate. 


THE  SETTLER'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

IN  a  patch  of  clearing,  scarcely  more 
Than  his  brawny  double  hands, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


125 


With  woods  behind  and  woods  before, 

The  Settler's  cabin  stands  ; 
A  little,  low,  and  lonesome  shed, 
With  a  roof  of  clapboards  overhead. 

Aye,  low,  so  low  the  wind-warped  eave 

Hangs  close  against  the  door  ; 
You  might   almost   stretch  a  bishop's 

sleeve 

From  the  rafter  to  the  floor  ; 
And   the    window  is  not   too  large,  a 

whit, 
For  a  lady's  veil  to  curtain  it. 

The  roof-tree's  bent  and  knotty  knees 

By  the  Settler's  axe  are  braced, 
And  the  door-yard  fence  is  three  felled 

trees 

With  their  bare  arms  interlaced  ; 
And  a  grape-vine,  shaggy  and   rough 

and  red, 

Swings    from   the   well-sweep's   high, 
sharp  head. 

And  among  the  stubs,  all  charred  and 

black, 

Away  to  the  distant  huts, 
Winds  in  and  out  the  wagon-track, 

Cut  full  of  zigzag  ruts  : 
And  down  and  down  to  the    sluggish 

pond, 

And    through  and  up  to  the    swamps 
beyond. 

And  do  you  ask  beneath  such  thatch 

What  heart  or  hope  may  be  ? 
Just   pull   the   string    of    the   wooden 

latch, 

And  see  what  you  shall  see  : 
A  hearth-stone  broad   and  warm   and 

wide, 
With  master  and  mistress  either  side. 

And  'twixt  them,  in  the  radiant  glow, 
Prattling  of  Christmas  joys, 

With  faces  in  a  shining  row, 
Six  children,  girls  and  boys  ; 

And  in  the  cradle  a  head  half-hid 
By  the  shaggy  wolf-skin  coverlid. 

For  the   baby   sleeps    in   the    shaded 

light 

As  gently  as  a  lamb, 
And  two  little  stockings,  scarlet  bright, 

Are  hanging  'gainst  the  jamb  ; 
And  the  yellow  cat  lies  all  of  a  curl 
In   the   lap  of  a  two-years'  blue-eyed 
girl. 


On  the  dresser,  saved  for  weeks  and 

weeks, 

A  hamper  of  apples  stands, 
And  some  are   red   as   the   children's 

cheeks, 

And  some  are  brown  as  their  hands  ; 
For  cakes  and  apples  must  stead,  you 

^see, 
The  rich  man's  costlier  Christmas-tree. 

A  clock  that  looks  like  a  skeleton, 
From  the  corner  ticksyout  bold  ; 
And  that  never  was  such  a  clock  to 

run 

You  would  hardly  need  be  told, 
If  you  were  to  see  the  glances  proud 
Drawn    toward   it  when   it   strikes   so 
loud. 

The  Settler's  rifle,  bright  and  brown, 

Hangs  high  on  the  rafter-hooks. 
And  swinging  a  hand's  breadth  lower 

down 

Is  a  modest  shelf  of  books  ; 
Bible   and    Hymn-book,   thumbed   all 

through, 
"  Baxter's  Call,"  and  a  novel  or  two. 

"Peter      Wilkins,"       "The      Bloody 

Hand," 

"  The  Sailor's  Bride  and  Bark," 
"  Jerusalem  and  the  Holy  Land," 

"  The  Travels  of  Lewis  and  Clarke  ;  " 
Some  tracts  :  among  them,  "  The  Milk 
maid's  Fall," 

"  Pleasure  Punished,"  and  "  Death  at 
a  Ball." 

A  branch  of  sumach,  shining  bright, 

And  a  stag-horn,  deck  the  wall, 
With  a  string  of  birds'-eggs,  blue  and 

white, 

Beneath.     But  after  all, 
You  will  say  the  six  little  heads  in  a 

row 

By  the  hearth-stone  make  the  prettiest 
show. 

The  boldest  urchin  dares  not  stir  ; 

But  each  heart,  be  sure,  rebels 
As  the  father  taps  on  the  newspaper 

With  his  brass-bowed  spectacles  ; 
And  knitting-needle  with  needle  clicks 
As  the  mother  waits  for  the  politics. 

He  has  rubbed  the  glass  and  rubbed 

the  bow, 
And  now  is  a  fearful  pause  : 


126 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


"  Come,  Molly  !  "  he  says,  "  come  Sue, 

come  Joe, 

And  I  '11  tell  you  of  Santa  Claus  !  " 
How  the  faces  shine  with  glad  surprise, 
As  if  the  souls  looked  out  of  the  eyes. 

In  a  trice  the  dozen  ruddy  legs 

Are  bare  ;  and  speckled  and  brown 
And  blue  and  gray,  from  the  wall-side 

Peg 

The  stockings  dangle  down  ; 
And   the  baby  with   wondering  eyes, 

looks  out 
To  see  what  the  clatter  is  all  about. 

"  And  what  will  Santa  Claus  bring  ?  " 

they  tease, 

"  And,  say,  is  he  tall  and  fair  ?  " 
While   the    younger  climb    the    good 

man's  knees, 

And  the  elder  scale  his  chair  ; 
And  the  mother  jogs  the  cradle,  and 

tries 
The  charm  of  the  dear  old  lullabies. 

So  happily  the  hours  fly  past, 

'T  is  pity  to  have  them  o'er  ; 
But  the  rusty  weights  of  the  clock,  at 

last 

Are  dragging  near  the  floor  ; 
And  the  knitting-needles,  one  and  all, 
Are  stuck  in  the  round,  red  knitting- 
ball. 

Now,  all  of  a  sudden  the  father  twirls 

The  empty  apple-plate  ; 
"  Old  Santa  Claus  don't  like  his  girls 

And  boys  to  be  up  so  late  !  " 
He  says,  "  And  I  '11  warrant  our  star- 
faced  cow, 

He  's   waiting   astride  o'   the  chimney 
now." 

Down  the  back  of  his  chair  they  slide, 
They  slide  down  arm  and  knee  : 

"  If  Santa  Claus  is  indeed  outside, 
He  sha'n't  be  kept  for  me  !  " 

Cry  one  and  all  ;  and  away  they  go, 

Hurrying,  flurrying,  six  in  a  row. 

In  the  mother's  eyes  are  happy  tears 

As  she  sees  them  flutter  away  ; 
"  My   man,"   she    says,  "  it  is  sixteen 

years 

Since  our  blessed  wedding-day  ; 
And  I  would  n't  think  it  but  just  a  year 
If    it   was  n't    for    all    these   children 
here." 


And  then  they  talk  of  what  they  will 

do 

As  the  years  shall  come  and  go  ; 
Of  schooling  for  little  Molly  and  Sue, 

And  of  land  for  John  and  Joe  ; 
And  Dick   is   so  wise,  and  Dolly  so 

fair, 

"They,"  says  the  mother,  "will  have 
luck  to  spare  !  " 

"  Aye,    aye,   good  wife,   that 's   clear, 

that 's  clear  !  " 

Then,  with  eyes  on  the  cradle  bent, 
"  And   what  if    he    in    the   wolf-skin 

here 

Turned  out  to  be  President  ? 
Just     think !      Oh,    would  n't     it     be 

fine,  — 
Such  fortune  for  your  boy  and  mine  !  " 

She   stopped  —  her    heart  with    hope 

elate  — 

And  kissed  the  golden  head  : 
Then,  with  the  brawny   hand   of  her 

mate 

Folded  in  hers,  she  said  : 
"  Walls  as  narrow,  and  a  roof  as  low, 
Have     sheltered     a     President,     you 
know." 

And  then  they  said  they  would  work 

and  wait, 

The  good,  sweet-hearted  pair  — 
You  must  have  pulled  the  latch-string 

straight, 

Had  you  in  truth  been  there, 
Feeling  that  you  were  not  by  leave 
At  the  Settler's  hearth  that  Christmas 
Eve. 


THE  OLD  STORY. 

THE  waiting-women  wait  at  her  feet, 

And  the  day  is  fading  into  the  night, 
And  close  at  her  pillow,  and  round  and 

sweet, 
The    red   rose    burns    like    a   lamp 

alight, 
And  under  and   over   the  gray  mists 

fold  ; 
And  clown  and  down  from  the  mossy 

eaves, 
And  down  from  the  sycamore's  long 

wild  leaves 

The  slow   rain   droppeth   so   cold,   so 
cold. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


127 


Ah !    never  had   sleeper  a    sleep    so 

fair  ; 
And   the  waiting-women   that  weep 

around, 
Have  taken  the  combs  from  her  golden 

hair, 
And  it  slideth  over  her  face  to  the 

ground. 
They  have  hidden  the  light  from  her 

lovely  eyes  ; 
And  down  from  the  eaves  where  the 

mosses  grow 
The    rain   is    dripping   so    slow,    so 

slow, 

And  the  night  wind  cries  and  cries  and 
cries. 

From  her  hand   they  have  taken  the 

shining  ring, 
They  have    brought    the    linen   her 

shroud  to  make  : 
Oh,  the  lark  she  was  never  so  loath  to 

sing, 
And  the  morn  she  was  never  so  loath 

to  awake  ! 
And   at   their    sewing  they  hear    the 

rain,  — 

Drip-drop,  drip-drop  over  the  eaves, 
And   drip-drop   over  the    sycamore 

leaves, 

As  if  there  would  never  be  sunshine 
again. 

The  mourning  train  to  the  grave  have 

gone, 
And  the  waiting  women  are  here  and 

are  there, 
With  birds  at  the  windows,  and  gleams 

of  the  sun, 
Making  the  chamber  of  death  to  be 

fair. 

And  under  and  over  the  mist  unlaps, 
And  ruby  and  amethyst  burn  through 

the  gray, 
And  driest  bushes  grow  green  with 

spray, 

And  the  dimpled  water  its  glad  hands 
claps. 

The  leaves  of  the  sycamore  dance  and 

wave, 

And  the  mourners  put  off  the  mourn 
ing  shows  ; 
And   over   the   pathway  down   to   the 

grave 
The  long  grass  blows  and  blows  and 

blows. 
And  every  drip-drop  rounds  to  a  flower, 


And  love  in  the  heart  of  the  young 

man  springs, 
And  the  hands  of  the  maidens  shine 

with  rings, 
As  if  all  life  were  a  festival  hour. 


BALDER'S   WIFE. 

HER  casement  like  a  watchful  eye 

From   the  face  of  the  wall  looks 

down, 
Lashed  round  with  ivy  vines  so  dry, 

And  with  ivy  leaves  so  brown. 
Her  golden  head  in  her  lily  hand 

Like  a  star  in  the  spray  o'  th'  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so 
low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 

Never  so  light  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

Like  some  bright  honey-hearted  rose 

That  the  wild  wind  rudely  mocks, 
She  blooms  from  the  dawn  to  the  day's 
sweet  close 

Hemmed  in  with  a  world  of  rocks. 
The  livelong  night  she  doth  not  stir, 

But  keeps  at  her  casement  lorn, 
And  the  skirts  of  the  darkness  shine 
with  her 

As  they  shine  with  the  light  o'  the 

morn 
And  all  who  pass  may  hear  her  lay, 

But  let  it  be  what  tune  it  may, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

And  there,  within  that  one-eyed  tower, 

Lashed  round  with  the  ivy  brown. 
She  droops  like  some  unpitied  flower 

That  the  rain-fall  washes  down  : 
The   damp  o'  th'   dew   in  her  golden 
hair, 

Her  cheek   like  the   spray   o'  th' 

sea, 

And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so 
low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 

Never  so  glad  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 


128 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


AT  REHEARSAL. 

0  COUSIN  Kit  MacDonald, 

I  've  been  all  the  day  among 
The  places  and  the  faces 

That  we  knew  when  we  were  young  ; 

And,  like  a  hope  that  shineth  down 
The  shadow  of  its  fears, 

1  found  this  bit  of  color  on 
The  groundwork  of  the  years. 

So  with  words  I  tried  to  paint  it, 
All  so  merry  and  so  bright  — 

And  here,  my  Kit  MacDonald, 
Is  the  picture  light  on  light. 

It  was  night — the  cows  were  stabled, 
And  the  sheep  were  in  their  fold, 

And  our  garret  had  a  double  roof  — 
Pearl  all  across  the  gold. 

The  winds  were  gay  as  dancers  — 
We  could  hear  them  waltz  and  whirl 

Above  the  roof  of  yellow  pine, 
And  the  other  roof  of  pearl. 

We  had  gathered  sticks  from  the  snow 
drift, 

And  now  that  the  fire  was  lit, 
We  made  a  ring  about  the  hearth 

And  watched  for  you,  dear  Kit. 

We  planned  our  pleasant  pastimes, 
But  never  a  game  begun  — 

For  Cousin  Kit  was  the  leader 
Of  all  the  frolic  and  fun. 

With  moss  and  with  bark,  for  his  sake, 
The  fire  we  strove  to  mend  — 

For  the  fore-stick,  blazing  at  middle, 
Was  frosty  at  either  end  ; 

But  after  all  of  the  blowing 

Till  our  cheeks  were  puffed  and  red, 
No  warm  glow  lighted  the  umber 

Of  the  rafters  overhead  ; 

And  after  all  of  the  mending, 
We  could  not  choose  but  see 

That  the  little  low,  square  window 
Was  as  dark  as  dark  could  be. 

The  chill  crept  in  from  our  fingers 
Till  our  hearts  grew  fairly  numb  — 

Oh,  what  if  he  shouldn't  see  the  light, 
And  what  if  he  should  n't  come  ! 


Then  pale-cheeked  little  Annie, 
With  a  hand  behind  her  ear 

Slipt  out  of  the  ring  and  listened 
To  learn  if  his  step  were  near  ; 

And  Philip  followed,  striding 
Through  the  garret  to  and  fro  — 

To  show  us  that  our  Cousin  Kit 
Was  marching  through  the  snow  ; 

While  Rose  stood  all  a-tiptoe, 
With  face  to  the  window  pressed, 

To  spy  him,  haply,  over  the  hill, 
And  tell  the  news  to  the  rest. 

And  at  last  there  was  shout  and  laugh 
ter, 

And  the  watching  all  was  done  — 
For  Kit  came  limping  and  whimpering, 

And  the  playing  was  begun. 

"  A  poor  old  man,  good  neighbors, 
Who  has  nearly  lost  his  sight, 

Has  come."  he  said,  "  to  eat  your  bread, 
And  lodge  by  your  fire  to-night. 

"  I  have  no  wife  nor  children, 
And  the  night  is  bitter  cold  ; 

And  you  see  (he  showed  the  snow  on 

his  hair)  — 
You  see  I  am  very  old  !  " 

"  We  have  seen  your  face  too  often, 

Old  Mr.  Kit,"  we  said  ; 
"  How  comes  it  that  you  're  houseless  — 

And  why  are  you  starved  for  bread  ? 

"  Because  you  were  thriftless  and  lazy, 
And  would  not  plough  nor  sow  ; 

And  because  you  drank  at  the  tavern  — 
Ah  !  that  is  why,  you  know  ! 

"  We  don't  give  beggars  lodging, 
And  we  want  our  fire  and  bread  ; 

And  so  good-day,  and  go  your  way, 
Old  Mr.  Kit,"  we  said. 

Then  showing  his  ragged  jacket, 

He  said  that  his  money  was  spent  — 

And  said  he  was  old,  and  the  night  was 

cold, 
And  with  body  doubly  bent 

He  reached  his  empty  hat  to  us, 
And  then  he  wiped  his  eye, 

And  said  he  had  n't  a  friend  in   the 

world 
That  would  give  him  room  to  die. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


129 


"  But  it  wasn't  for  you,"  we  answered, 
"  That  our  hearth  to-night  was  lit." 

And   so   we    turned    him   out    o'   the 

house  — 
O  Kit,  my  Cousin  Kit  ! 


As  I  sit  here  painting  over 

The  night,  and  the  fire,  and  the  snow, 
And  all  your  boyish  make-believe 

In  that  garret  rude  and  low, 

My  heart  is  broken  within  me, 
For  my  love  must  needs  allow 

That  you  were  at  the  rehearsal  then 
Of  the  part  you  are  playing  now. 


THE    FISHERMAN'S    WIFE. 

PEACE  !  for  my  brain  is  on  the  rack  ! 
Peace  of  your  idle  prattling,  John  ! 
Ere  peep  o'  daylight  he  was  gone  : 
And  my  thoughts  they  run  as  wild  and 

black 
As  the  clouds  in  the  sky,  from  fear  to 

fear. 
Mother   o'     mercy !     would    he    were 

here  — 
Oh  !   would   that  he   only  were  safely 

here  — 
Would  that  I  knew  he  would  ever  come 

back! 

Yet  surely  he  will  come  anon  ; 
Let 's  see  — the  clock  is  almost  on 
The  stroke  o'  ten.     Even  ere  it  strike, 
His  hand  will  be  at  the  latch  belike. 
Set  up  his  chair  in  the  corner,  John, 
Add  a  fresh  log,  and  stir  the  coals  : 
We  can  afford  it,  I  reckon,  yet. 
The  night  is  chilly  and  wild  and  wet, 
And  all  the  fishers'  wives,  poor  souls, 
Must    watch    and    wait !      There    are 

otherwhere 

Burdens  heavy  as  mine  to  bear, 
Though  not  so  bitter.     It  was  my  fret 
And  worry  that  sent  him  to  his  boat. 
Here,   Johnny,   come   kneel    down   by 

me, 

And  pray  the  best  man  keep  afloat 
That  ever  trusted  his  life  at  sea  ! 
So  :  let  your  pretty  head  be  bowed, 
Like  a  stricken  flower,  upon  my  knee  ; 
And    when    you   come    to   the    sweet, 

sweet  word 

Of  best,  my  little  one  —  my  bird, 
Say  it  over  twice,  and  say  it  loud. 
9 


I  do  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes 
To  our  meek  Master  in  the  skies  ; 
For  it  was  my  wicked  pride,  alas  ! 
That  brought  me  to  the  heavy  pass 
Of  weary  waiting  and  listening  sad 
To  the  winds  as  they  drearily  drift  and 

drive. 

So  pray  in  your  praying  for  me,  my  lad  ! 
Oh  !  if  he  were  there  in  the  chair  you 

set, 

With  never  a  silvery  fish  in  his  net, 
I  'd  be  the  happiest  woman  alive  ! 

But  he  will  come  ere  long,  I  know : 
Here,  Johnny,  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  climb  up  to  my  shoulder  —  so  : 
Upon  the  cupboard's  highest  shelf 
You  '11  see  a  bottle  of  good  old  wine  — 
I  pressed  the  berry-juice  myself. 
Ah  !  how  it  sparkles  in  the  light, 
To  make  us  loath  to  break  the  seal ; 
But  though  its  warm  red  life  could  feel, 
We  would  not  spare  it  —  not  to-night ! 

Another  hour  !  and  he  comes  not  yet : 
And  I  hear  the  long  waves  wash  the 

beach, 
With  the  moan  of  a  drowning  man  in 

each, 

And  the  star  of  hope  is  near  to  set. 
The  proudest  lady  in  all  the  land 
That  sits  in  her  chamber  fine  and  high, 
That   sits    in   her   chamber  large    and 

grand, 

I  would  not  envy  to-night  —  not  I  — 
If  I  had  his  cold  wet  locks  in  my  hand, 
To  make  them  warm  and  to  make  them 

dry, 

And  to  comb  them  with  my  fingers  free 
From  the   clinging   sea-weed   and  the 

sand 

Washing  over  them,  it  may  be. 
Ah  !  how  should  I  envy  the  lady  fair 
With  white    arms    hidden    in   folds  of 

lace, 

If  my  dear  old  fisher  were  sitting  there, 
His  pipe    in   his    hand,  and   his    sun- 
brown  face 

Turning  this  way  and  that  to  me, 
As  I  broiled   the  salmon  and  steeped 

the  tea. 

O  empty  heart  !  and  O  empty  chair  ! 
My   boy,    my    Johnny,   say   over  your 

prayer  ; 
And  straight  to  the  words  I  told  you 

keep, 
Till  you  pass  the  best  man  out  on  the 

deep, 


130 


THE  FOE  MS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


And  then  say  this  :    If  them  grantest, 

Lord, 
That  he  come  back  alive,  and  with  fish 

in  his  net, 
The   church    shall   have  them  for  her 

reward, 

And  we,  of  our  thankfulness,  will  set 
A  day  for  fasting  and  scourge  and  pain. 
Hark  !  hark  to  the  crazy  winds  again  ! 
The  tide  is  high  as  high  can  be, 
The  waters  are  boiling  over  the  bar, 
And  drawing  under  them  near  and  far 
The  low  black  land.     Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
I  can  only  think  of  the  mad,  mad  sea  ; 
I  can  only  think,  and  think,  and  think 
How  quickly  a  foundered  boat  would 

sink, 
And  how  soon  the  stoutest  arms  would 

fail. 

'T  is  all  of  my  worry  and  all  of  my  fret, 
For   I    brewed    the    bitter    draught  I 

drink  : 

I  teased  for  a  foolish,  flimsy  veil. 
And  teased  and  teased  for  a  spangled 

gown, 

And  to  have  a  holiday  in  the  town. 
There  was  only  just  one  way,  one  way, 
And  he  mended  his  net  and  trimmed 

his  sail, 

And  trusted  his  life  to  the  pitiless  sea, 
My  dear  old  fisher,  for  love  of  me, 
When  a  better  wife  would    have    said 

him  nay  ; 

And  so  my  folly  forlorn  I  bewail. 
Hark  !     Midnight !     All  the  hearth  is 

cli  m 

And  cold  ;   but  sure  we  need  not  strive 
To  keep  it  warm  and  bright  for  him  — 
He  never  will  come  back  alive. 
I  hear  the  creak  of  masts  a-strain, 
As  the  mad  winds  rush  madly  on. 
Kneel  down  and  say  yet  once  again 
The  prayer  I  told  you  a  while  ago  ; 
And  be  not  loud,  my  boy,  my  John  — 
Nay,  it  befits  us  to  be  low  — 
Nor   yet    so  straight   to    the    wording 

keep, 

As  I  did  g"ive  you  charge  before  : 
The  best  man  ever  was  on  the  deep 
Pray  for  ;  and  say  the  best  twice  o'er. 
But    when    through   our  blessed    Re 
deemer  you  say 
The  sweet  supplication  for  him  that 's 

away, 
That  saints  bring  him  back  to  us  saved 

from  ill, 
Add  this  to  the  Father :    If  so  be  Thy 

will. 


And  I,  lest  again  my  temptation  assail, 
Will  yield  to  my  chast'ning,  and  cover 

up  head 
With  blackness  of  darkness,  instead  of 

the  veil 
I  pined  for  in  worry  and  pined  for  in 

fret, 
Till  my  good  man  was  fain  to  be  gone 

with  his  net 
Where  but   the  winds    scolded.     Now 

get  from  your  knees, 
For  I,  from  the    depths  of   contrition, 

have  said 
The  Amen  before  you.     And  we  '11  to 

the  seas  : 

Belike  some  kind  wave  may  be  wash 
ing  ashore, 
With  coils  of  rope  and  salt  sea-weed, 

some  sign 

To  be  as  a  letter  sent  out  of  the  brine 
To  tell  us  the  last  news  —  to  say  if  he 

struck 
On   the   rocks    and   went   down  —  but 

hush  !  breathe  not,  my  lad. 

0  sweet  Lord  of  Mercy  !   my  brain  is 

gone  mad  ! 
Or  that  was  the  tune  that  he  whistles 

for  luck ! 
Run  !    run  to  the  door  !    open  wide  — 

wider  yet  ! 
He   is  there  !  —  he   is  here  !    and   my 

arms  are  outspread 

1  am  clasping  and   kissing  his  hands 

rough  and  brown. 
Are  you  living?  or  are  you  the  ghost 

of  my  dead  ? 
'Tis   all  of  my  worry  and  all  of  my 

fret; 
Ashamed  in  his  bosom  I  hung   down 

my  head. 
He  has  been  with  his  fishes  to  sell  in 

the  town, 
For  I  see,  snugly  wrapt  in  the  folds  of 

his  net, 
The   hindering  veil  and   the   spangled 

new  gown. 


MAID  AND   MAN. 

ALL  in  the  gay  and  golden  weather, 
Two  fair  travelers,  maid  and  man, 

Sailed  in  a  birchen  boat  together, 
And    sailed    the  way  that   the    river 
ran : 

The  sun  was  low,  not  set,  and  the  west 

Was  colored  like  a  robin's  breast. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


The   moon   was   moving   sweetly  o'er 

them, 

And  her  shadow,  in  the  waves  afloat, 
Moved  softly  on  and  on  before  them 
Like  a  silver  swan,  that  drew  their 

boat ; 

And   they  were  lovers,  and  well   con 
tent, 
Sailing  the  way  the  river  went. 

And  these  two  saw  in  her  grassy  bower 
As  they  sailed  the  way  the  river  run, 

A  little,  modest,  slim-necked  flower 
Nodding  and  nodding  up  to  the  sun, 

And  they  made  about  her  a  little  song 

And  sung  it  as  they  sailed  along : 

"  Pull    down    the     grass     about    your 

bosom, 
Nor   look  at   the   sun   in   the    royal 

sky, 

'T  is  dangerous,  dangerous,  little  blos 
som, 

You  are  so  low,  and  he  is  so  high  — 
'T  is  dangerous  nodding  up  to  him, 
He  is  so  bright,  and  you  are  so  dim  !  " 

Sweetly  over,  and  sadly  under, 

They  turned  the  tune  as  they  sailed 

along, 
And  they  did  not  see  the  cloud,  for  a 

wonder, 
Break  in  the  water,  the  shape  of  the 

swan ; 

Nor  yet,  for  a  wonder,  see  at  all 
The  river  narrowing  toward  the  fall. 

"Be  warned,  my  beauty  —  'tis  not  the 

fashion 

Of  the  king  to  wed  with  the  waiting- 
maid  — 

Make  not  from  sleep  his  fiery  passion, 
But   turn   your  red   cheek   into    the 
shade  — 

The   dew   is   a-tremble   to    kiss    your 
eyes  — 

And  there  is  but  danger  in  the  skies  !  " 

Close  on  the  precipice  rang  the  ditty, 
But   they  looked   behind  them,  and 

not  before, 
And  went   down  singing  their  doleful 

pity 
About    the     blossom     safe    on    the 

shore  — 
"  There  is   danger,  danger !   frail  one, 

list!" 
Backward  whirled  in  the  whirling  mist. 


THE   DOUBLE  SKEIN. 

UP  ere  the  throstle  is  out  of  the  thorn, 
Or   the   east    a-blush    with    a    rosy 

break, 

For  she  wakens  earlier  now  of  a  morn  ; 
Earlier  now  than  she  used  to  wake, 
Such   troublous    meanings    the    sea- 
waves  make. 

She  leans  to  her  distaff  a  weary  brow, 
And  her  cheeks  seem  ready  the  flax 

to  burn, 
And    the    wheel    in    her    hand    turns 

heavier  now  ; 

Heavier  now  than  it  used  to  turn, 
When  strong  hands  helped  her  the 
bread  to  earn. 

She  lists  to  the  school-boy's  laugh  and 

shout, 
And  her  eyes  have  the  old  expectant 

gleam  ; 
And  she  draws  the  fine  thread  out  and 

out, 

Till  it  drags  her  back  from  her  ten 
der  dream, 

And   wide  and  homeless  the  world 
doth  seem. 

Over  the  fields  to  the  sands  so  brown, 
And  over  the  sands  to  the  restless 

tides 
She  looks,  and  her  heart  tilts  up  and 

down  ; 
Up  and  down   with   the   boat  as  it 

rides, 

And    she    cries,    "  God    steady  the 
hand  that  guides  !  " 

She  watches  the  lights  from  the   sea- 
cliffs  go, 

Bedazed  with  a  wonder  of  vague  sur 
prise, 

For  the  sun  seems  now  to  be  always 
low, 

And   never   to   rise  as   he   used   to 
rise  — 

The     gracious    glory    of    land    and 
skies. 

She  shrinks  from  the  pattered  plash  of 

the  rain, 
For  it  taps  not  now  as  it  used  to 

do, 
Like  a  tearful  Spirit  of   Love   at  the 

pane, 


132 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  the  gray  mist  sweeping  across 

the  blue 
Never  so  lightly,  chills  her  through. 

So  spins  she  ever  a  double  skein, 
And  the  thread  on  her  finger  all  eyes 

may  see, 
But  the  other  is  spun  in  her  whirling 

brain 

And  out  of  the  sea-fog  over  the  sea, 
For  still  with  its  treasure  the  heart 
will  be. 


SELFISH   SORROW. 

THE  house  lay  snug  as  a  robin's  nest 

Beneath  its  sheltering  tree, 
And  a  field  of  flowers  was  toward  the 

west, 

And  toward  the  east  the  sea, 
Where  a  belt  of  weedy  and  wet  black 

sand 
Was  always  pushing  in  to  the  land, 

And  with  her  face  away  from  the  sun 
And  toward  the  sea  so  wild, 

The  grandam  sat,  and  spun  and  spun, 
And  never  heeded  the  child, 

So  wistfully  waiting  beside  her  chair. 

More  than  she  heeded  the  bird  of  the 
air. 

Fret  and  fret,  and  spin  and  spin, 
With  her  face  the  way  of  the  sea : 

And  whether  the  tide  were  out  or  in, 
A-sighing,  "  Woe  is  me  !  " 

In  spite  of  the  waiting  and  wistful  eyes 

Pleading  so  sweetly  against  the  sighs. 

And  spin,  spin,  and  fret,  fret, 

And  at  last  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  light  of  the  fire  went  out  and 

met 

The  light  o'  the  setting  sun. 
"  It  will  be  a  stormy  night  —  ah  me  !  " 
Sighed   the  grandam,   looking  at   the 
sea. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  n't  a-going  to  rain  !  " 
Cries  the  dove-eyed  little  girl, 

Pressing    her   cheek  to   the   window- 
pane 
And  pulling  her  hair  out  of  curl. 

But  the  grandam  answered  with  a  sigh, 

Just  as  she  answered  the  cricket's  cry, 


"  If  it  rains,  let  it  rain  ;  we  shall  not 

drown  !  " 

Says  the  child,  so  glad  and  gay  ; 
"  The  leaves  of  the  aspen  are  blowing 

down  ; 

A  sign  of  fair  weather,  they  say  !  " 
And   the  grandam   moaned,  as   if  the 

sea 
Were   beating   her  life  out,  "  Woe  is 

me!" 

The  heart  of  the  dove-eyed  little  girl 

Began  in  her  throat  to  rise, 
And  she  says,  pulling  golden  curl  upon 

curl 

All  over  her  face  and  her  eyes, 
"  I  wish  we  were  out  of  sight  of  the 

sea  !  " 

And  the  grandam  answered,  "  Woe  is 
me  ! " 

The  sun  in  a  sudden  darkness  slid, 

The  winds  began  to  plain, 
And  all  the  flowery  field  was  hid 
With   the   cold  gray   mist   and   the 

rain. 
Then  knelt  the  child  on  the  hearth  so 

low, 
And  blew  the  embers  all  aglow. 

On  one  small  hand  so  lily  white 
She  propped  her  golden  head, 
And  lying  along  the  rosy  light 

She  took  her  book  and  read  : 
And  the  grandam  heard  her  laughter 

low, 

As  she  rocked  in  the  shadows  to  and 
fro. 

At  length  she  put  her  spectacles  on 
And  drew  the  book  to  her  knee  : 
"  And  does  it  tell,"  she  said,  "  about 

John, 

My  lad,  who  was  lost  at  sea  ?  " 
"Why,    no,"  says    the    child,    turning 

face  about, 

"  'T  is    a   fairy   tale  :    shall    I    read    it 
out  ?  " 

The  grandam  lowlier  bent  upon 

The  page  as  it  lay  on  her  knee : 
"  No,  not  if  it  does  n't  tell  about  John," 

She  says,  "who  was  lost  at  sea." 
And  the   little  girl,  with  a  saddened 

face, 

Shut  her  hair  in  the  leaves  to  keep  the 
place. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


133 


And  climbing  up  and  over  the  chair, 

The  way  that  her  sweet  heart  led, 

She  put  one  arm,  so  round  and  fair, 

Like  a  crown,  on  the  old  gray  head. 
"  So,  child,"  says  the  grandam  —  keep 
ing  on 

With     her     thoughts  —  "  your     book 
does  n't  tell  about  John  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  it  tells  of  a  fairy  old 

Who  lived  in  a  daffodil  bell, 
And   who   had   a  heart  so   hard  and 

cold 

That  she  kept  the  dews  to  sell ; 
And  when  a  butterfly  wanted  a  drink, 
How  much  did  she  ask  him,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  O  foolish  child,  I  cannot  tell, 

May  be  a  crown,  or  so." 
"  But  the  fairy  lived  in  a  daffodil  bell, 
And    could  n't    hoard    crowns,    you 

know  !  " 
And     the     grandam     answered  —  her 

thought  joined  on 

To   the   old   thought  —  "  Not   a  word 
about  John  ? " 

"But    grandam  "•— "  Nay,    for    pity's 

sake 

Don't  vex  me  about  your  crown, 
But  say  if  the  ribs  of   a  ship  should 

break 

And  the  ship's  crew  all  go  down 
Of  a  night  like  this,  how  long  it  would 

take 
For  a  strong-limbed  lad  to  drown  !  " 

"  But,  grandam,"  —  Nay,  have  done," 

she  said, 

"  With  your  fairy  and  her  crown  ! 
Besides,  your  arm  upon  my  head 

Is  heavy  ;  get  you  down  !  " 
"  O  ma'am,  I  'm  so  sorry  to  give  you  a 

pain  !  " 

And  the  child  kissed  the  wrinkled  face 
time  and  again. 

And  then  she  told  the  story  through 

Of  the  fairy  of  the  dell, 
Who  sold  God's  blessed  gift  of  the  dew 

When  it  was  n't  hers  to  sell, 
And  who  shut  the  sweet  light  all  away 
With  her  thick  black  wings,  and  pined 
all  day. 

And  how  at  last  God  struck  her  blind. 
The  grandam  wiped  a  tear, 


And  then  she  said,  "  I  should  n't  mind 

If  you  read  to  me  now,  my  dear  !  " 
And  the  little   girl,  with  a  wondering 

look, 
Slipped  her  golden  hair  from  the  leaves 

of  the  book. 

As  the  grandam  pulled  her  down  to 

her  knee, 

And  pressed  her  close  in  her  arm, 
And  kissing  her,  said,  "  Run  out  and 

see 

If  there  is  n't  a  lull  in  the  storm  ! 
I  think  the  moon,  or  at  least  some  star, 
Must  shine,  and  the  wind  grows  faint 
and  far." 

Next  day  again  the  grandam  spun, 

And  oh,  how  sweet  were  the  hours  ! 
For  she  sat  at  the  window  toward  the 

sun, 

And  next  the  field  of  flowers, 
And  never  looked  at  the  long  gray  sea, 
Nor  sighed  for  her  lad  that  was  lost, 
"  Ah  me  !  " 


THE  EDGE   OF  DOOM. 

HEART  -  SICK,    homeless,    weak,    and 
weary, 

On  the  edge  of  doom  she  stands, 
Fighting  back  the  wily  Tempter 

With  her  trembling  woman's  hands. 
On  her  lip  a  moan  of  pleading, 

In  her  eyes  a  look  of  pain, 
Men  and  women,  men  and  women, 

Shall  her  cry  go  up  in  vain  ? 

On  the  edge  of  doom  and  darkness  — 

Darker,  deeper  than  the  grave  — 
Off  with  pride,  that  devil's  virtue  ! 

While  there  yet  is  time  to  save, 
Clinging  for  her  life,  and  shrinking 

Lower,  lower  from  your  frown  : 
Men  and  women,  men  and  women, 

Will  you,  can  you,  crowd  her  down  ? 

On  that  head,  so  early  faded, 

Pitiless  the  rains  have  beat  ; 
Famine  down  the  pavements    tracked 
her 

By  her  bruised  and  bleeding  feet. 
Through  the  years,  sweet  old  Naomi, 

Lead  her  in  the  gleaners'  way ; 
Boaz,  oh,  command  your  young  men 

To  reproach  her  not,  I  pray. 


134 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


Face  to  face  with  shame  and  insult 

Since  she  drew  her  baby-breath, 
Were    it   strange    to   find   her   knock 
ing 

At  the  cruel  door  of  death  i 
Were    it    strange    if  she    should    par 
ley 

With  the  great  arch-fiend  of  sin  ? 
Open  wide,  O  gates  of  mercy, 

Wider,  wider  !  — let  her  in  ! 

Ah  !  my  proud  and  scornful  lady, 

Lapped  in  laces  fair  and  fine, 
But  for  God's  good  grace  and  mercy 

Such  a  fate  as  hers  were  thine. 
Therefore,  breaking  combs  of  honey, 

Breaking  loaves  of  snowy  bread, 
If  she  ask  a  crumb,  I  charge  you 

Give  her  not  a  stone  instead. 

Never  lullaby,  sung  softly, 

Made  her  silken  cradle  stir  ; 
Never  ring  of  gay  young  playmates 

Opened  to  make  room  for  her  ! 
Therefore,  winds,  sing  up  your  sweet 
est, 

Rocking  lightly  on  the  leaves  ; 
And,  O  reapers,  careless  reapers, 

Let  her  glean  among  your  sheaves  ! 

Never  mother,  by  her  pillow, 

Knelt  and  taught  her  how  to  say, 
Lead  me  not  into  temptation, 

Give  me  daily  bread  this  day. 
Therefore,   reapers,    while    the    corn 
stalks 

To  your  shining  sickles  lean, 
Drop,  oh  drop  some  golden  handfuls  — 

Let  her  freely  come  and  glean  ! 

Never  mellow  furrows  crumbled 
Softly  to  her  childish  tread  — 
She  but  sowed  in  stony  places, 

And  the  seed  is  choked  and  dead. 
Therefore,  let  her  rest  among  you 

When  the  sunbeams  fiercely  shine  — 
Barley  reapers,  let  her  with  you 

Dip  her  morsel  in  the  wine  ! 

And  entreat  her  not  to  leave  you 

When  the  harvest  week  is  o'er, 
Nor  depart  from  following  after, 

Even  to  the  threshing-floor. 
But    when     stars     through     fields    of 
shadow 

Shepherd  in  the  evening  gray, 
Fill  her  veil  with  beaten  measures, 

Send  her  empty  not  away. 


Then  the  city  round  about  her, 

As  she  moveth  by,  shall  stir 
As  it  moved  to  meet  Naomi 

Home  from  famine  —  yea,  for  her  ! 
And  the  Lord,  whose  name  is  Mercy, 

Steadfast  by  your  deed  shall  stand. 
And  shall  make  her  even  as  Rachel, 

Even  as  Leah,  to  the  land. 


THE   CHOPPER'S   CHILD. 

A    STORY    FOR   THANKSGIVING    DAY. 

THE  smoke  of  the  Indian  Summer 

Darkened  and  doubled  the  rills, 
And  the  ripe  corn,  like  a  sunset, 

Shimmered  along  the  hills  ; 
Like  a  gracious  glowing  sunset. 

Interlaced  with  the  rainbow  light 
Of  vanishing  wings  a-trailing 

And  trembling  out  of  sight ; 

As,  with  the  brier-buds  gleaming 

In  her  darling,  dimpled  hands, 
Toddling  slow  adown  the  sheep-paths 

Of  the  yellow  stubble-lands  — 
Her  sweet  eyes  full  of  the  shadows 

Of  the  woodland,  darkly  brown  — 
Came  the  chopper's  little  daughter, 

In  her  simple  hood  and  gown. 

Behind  her  streamed  the  splendors 

Of  the  oaks  and  elms  so  grand, 
Before  her  gleamed  the  gardens 

Of  the  rich  man  of  the  land  ; 
Gardens  about  whose  gateways 

The  gloomy  ivy  swayed, 
Setting  all  her  heart  a- tremble 

As  she  struck  within  their  shade. 

Now  the  chopper's  lowly  cabin 

It  lay  nestled  in  the  wood, 
And  the  dwelling  of  the  rich  man 

Bv  the  open  highway  stood, 
With  its  pleasant  porches  facing 

All  against  the  morning  hills, 
And  each  separate  window  shining 

Like  a  bed  of  daffodils. 

Up  above  the  tallest  poplars 

In  its  stateliness  it  rose, 
With  its  carved  and  curious  gables, 

And  its  marble  porticoes  : 
But  she  did  not  see  the  grandeur, 

And  she  thought  her  father's  oaks 
Were  finer  than  the  cedars 

Clipt  so  close  along  the  walks. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


135 


So,  in  that  full  confiding 

The  unworldly  only  know, 
Through  the  gateway,  down  the  garden, 

Up  the  marble  portico, 
Her  bare  feet  brown  as  bees'  wings, 

And  her  hands  of  brier-buds  full, 
On,  along  the  fleecy  crimson 

Of  the  carpets  of  dyed  wool, 

With  a  modest  glance  uplifted 

Through  the  lashes  drooping  down, 
Came  the  chopper's  little  daughter, 

In  her  simple  hood  and  gown  ; 
Still  and  steady,  like  a  shadow 

Sliding  inward  from  the  wood, 
Till  before  the  lady-mistress 

Of  the  house,  at  last,  she  stood. 

Oh,  as  sweet  as  summer  sunshine 

Was  that  lady-dame  to  see, 
With  the  chopper's  little  daughter, 

Like  a  shadow  at  her  knee  ! 
Oh,  green  as  leaves  of  clover 

Were  the  broideries  of  her  train, 
And  her  hand  it  shone  with  jewels 

Like  a  lily  with  the  rain. 

And  the  priest  before  the  altar, 

As  she  swam  along  the  aisle, 
Reading  out  the  sacred  lesson, 

Read  it  consciously,  the  while  ; 
The  long  roll  of  the  organ 

Drew  across  a  silken  stir, 
And  when  he  named  a  saint,  it  was 

As  if  he  named  but  her. 

But  the  chopper's  child  undazzled 

In  her  lady-presence  stood  — 
(She  was  born  amid  the  spendors 

Of  the  glorious  autumn  wood)  — 
And  so  sweetly  and  serenely 

Met  the  cold  and  careless  face, 
Her  own  alive  with  blushes, 

E'en  as  one  who  gives  a  grace  ; 

As  she  said,  the  accents  falling 

In  a  pretty,  childish  way  : 
"  To-morrow,  then  to-morrow 

Will  have  brought  Thanksgiving  day; 
And  my  mother  will  be  happy, 

And  be  honored,  so  she  said, 
To  have  the  landlord's  lady 

Taste  her  honey  and  her  bread." 

Then  slowly  spake  the  lady, 
As  disdainfully  she  smiled, 

"  Live  you  not  in  yonder  cabin  ? 
Are  you  not  the  chopper's  child  ? 


And  your  foolish  mother  bids  me 
To  Thanksgiving,  do  you  say  ? 

What  is  it,  little  starveling, 

That     you    give    your    thanks    for, 
pray  ?  " 

One  bashful  moment's  silence  — 

Then  hushing  up  her  pain, 
And  sweetness  growing  out  of  it 

As  the  rose  does  out  of  rain  — 
She  stript  the  woolen  kerchief 

From  off  her  shining  head. 
As  one  might  strip  the  outer  husk 

From  the  golden  ear,  and  said  : 

"  What  have  we  to  give  thanks  for  ? 

Why,  just  for  daily  bread  !  " 
And  then,  with  all  her  little  pride 

A-blushing  out  so  red  — 
"  Perhaps,  too,  that  the  sunshine 

Can  come  and  lie  on  our  floor, 
With  none  of  your  icy  columns 

To  shut  it  from  the  door  !  " 

"  What  have  we  to  give  thanks  for  ?  " 
And  a  smile  illumed  her  tears, 
As  a  star  the  broken  vapors, 

When  it  suddenly  appears  ; 
And  she  answered,  all  her  bosom 

Throbbing  up  and  down  so  fast  : 
"  Because  my  poor  sick  brother 

Is  asleep  at  last,  at  last. 

"Asleep  beneath  the  daisies  : 

But  when  the  drenching  rain 
Has  put  them  out,  we  know  the  dew 

Will  light  them  up  again  ; 
And  we  make  and  keep  Thanksgiving 

With  the  best  the  house  affords, 
Since,  if  we  live,  or  if  we  die, 

WTe  know  we  are  the  Lord's  : 

"  That  out  his  hands  of  mercy 

Not  the  least  of  us  can  fall ; 
But  we  have  ten  thousand  blessings, 

And  I  cannot  name  them  all  ! 
Oh,  see  them  yourself,  good  madam  — 

I  will  come  and  show  you  the  way  — 
After  the  morrow,  the  morrow  again 

Will  be  the  great,  glad  day." 

And,  tucking  up  her  tresses 
In  the  kerchief  of  gray  wool, 

Where  they  gleamed  like  golden  wood- 
lights 
In  the  autumn  mists  so  dull, 

She  crossed  the  crimson  carpets, 
With  her  rose-buds  in  her  hands, 


136 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


And,  climbing  up  the  sheep-paths 
Of  the  yellow  stubble-lands, 

Passed  the  marsh  wherein  the  starlings 

Shut  so  close  their  horny  bills, 
And  lighted  with  her  loveliness 

The  gateway  of  the  hills. 
Oh,  the  eagle  has  the  sunshine, 

And  his  way  is  grand  and  still  ; 
But  the  lark  can  turn  the  cloud  into 

A  temple  when  she  will  ! 

That  evening,  when  the  corn  fields 

Had  lost  the  rainbow  light 
Of  vanishing  wings  a-trailing 

And  trembling  out  of  sight. 
Apart  from  her  great  possessions 

And  from  all  the  world  apart, 
Knelt  the  lady-wife  and  mistress 

Of  the  rich  man's  house  and  heart. 

Knelt  she,  all  her  spirit  broken, 

And  the  shame  she  could  not  speak, 
Burning  out  upon  the  darkness 

From  the  fires  upon  her  cheek  ; 
And  prayed  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 

To  make  her  meek  and  mild, 
And  as  faithful  in  Thanksgiving 

As  the  chopper's  little  child. 


THE   DEAD-HOUSE. 

IN  the  dead  of  night  to  the  Dead-house, 

She  cometh  —  a  maiden  fair  — 
By  the  feet  so  slight  and  slender, 
By  the  hand  so  white  and  tender, 
And  by  the  silken  and  shining  lengths 
Of  the  girlish,  golden  hair, 

Dragging  under  and  over 
The  arms  of  the  men  that  bear. 

Oh  !  make  of  your  pity  a  cover, 
And  softly,  silently  bear  : 

Perhaps  for  the  sake  of  a  lover, 
Loved  all  too  well,  she  is  there  ! 

In  the  dead  of  night  to  the  Dead-house  ! 

So  lovely  and  so  lorn  — 
Straighten  the  tangled  tresses, 
They  have  known  a  mother's  kisses, 
And   hide  with   their   shining  veil    of 

grace 
The   sightless   eyes  and  the  pale,  sad 

face 

From  men  and  women's  scorn. 
Aye,  veil  the  poor  face  over, 
And  softly,  silently  bear  : 


Perhaps  for  the  sake  of  a  lover, 
Loved  all  too  well,  she  is  there. 

In  the  dead  of  night  to  the  Dead-house  ! 

Bear  her  in  from  the  street : 
The   watch   at  his   watching    found 

her  — 

Ah  !  say  it  low  nor  wound  her, 
For  though  the  heart  in  the  bosom 

Has  ceased  to  throb  and  beat, 
Speak  low,  when    you  say  how  they 

found  her 

Buried  alive  in  the  sleet. 
Speak  low,  and  make  her  a  cover 

All  out  of  her  shining  hair  : 
Perhaps  for  the  sake  of  a  lover, 
Loved  all  too  well,  she  was  there. 

Desolate  left  in  the  Dead-house  ! 

Your  cruel  judgments  spare, 

Ye  know  not  why  she  is  there  : 
Be  slow  to  pronounce  your  " mene" 
Remember  the  Magdalene  ; 

Be  slow  with  your  harsh  award  — 
Remember  the  Magdalene ; 

Remember  the  dear,  dear  Lord  ! 
Holy,  and  high  above  her, 

By  the  length  of  her  sin  and  shame, 
He  could  take  her  and  love  her  — 

Praise  to  his  precious  name. 

With  oil  of  gentle  mercy 

The  tide  of  your  censure  stem ; 
Have  ye  no  scarlet  sinning  ? 
No  need  for  yourselves  of  winning 
Those  sweetest  words  man  ever  spake 
In  all  the  world  for  pity's  sake, 
Those  words  the  heardest   heart  that 

break : 
"  Neither  do  I  condemn." 

In    the   light   of    morn   to   the   Dead- 
house 
There  cometh  a  man  so  old  — 

"  My  child  !  "  he  cries  ;  "  I  will  wake 
her; 

Close,   close   in  my  arms    I  will  take 
her, 

And  bear  her  back  on  my  shoulder, 
My  poor  stray  lamb  to  the  fold  ! 

How'  came  she  in  this  dreadful  place  ?  " 

And  he  stoops  and  puts  away  from  the 

face 
The  queenly  cover  of  gold. 

"  No,    no  ! "    he   says,    *•  it   is    not  my 
girl !  " 

As  he  lifts  the  tresses  curl  by  curl, 

"  She  was  never  so  pale  and  cold  !  " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


137 


In  the  light  of  morn  in  the  Dead-house, 

He  prattleth  like  a  child  — 
"  No,  no  !  "  he  says,  "  it  cannot  be  — 
Her  sweet  eyes  would  have  answered 
me, 

And   her   sweet   mouth    must   have 

smiled  — 

She  would  have  asked  for  her  mother, 
And  for  the  good  little  brother 

That  thought  it  pastime  and  pleasure 
To  be  up  and  at  work  for  her. 
And  she  doth  not  smile  nor  stir." 
And  then,  with  his  arms  outspread 
From  the  slender  feet  to  the  head, 

He  taketh  the  fearful  measure. 
"  No,  no  !  "  he  says,  "  she  would  wake 

and  smile  "  — 
But  he  listens  breathless  all  the  while 

If  haply  the  heart  may  beat, 
And  tenderly  with  trembling  hands 
Out  of  the  shining  silken  bands 

Combs  the  frozen  sleet. 

In  the  light  of  morn  in  the  Dead-house, 

He  prattleth  on  and  on  — 
"  As  like  her  mother's  as  can  be 
These  two  white  hands  ;  but  if  'twere 
she 

Who  out  of  our  house  is  gone, 
I  must  have  found  here  by  her  side 
He  to  whom  she  was  promised  bride  : 
And  yet  this  way  along  the  sleet 
We  tracked  the  little  wandering  feet. 
And  yesterday,  her  mother  said, 
When  she  waked  and  called  her  from 

her  bed, 
She    looked    like    one   a  dream    had 

crazed  — 

Her     mother    thought     the    sunshine 
dazed, 

And  thought  it  childish  passion 
That  made  her,  when  she  knelt  to  pray, 
Falter,  and  be  afraid  to  say, 

Lord,  keep  us  from  temptation. 
And  I  bethink,  the  mother  said  — 
(What    puts    such    thoughts    into    my 
head  ?) 

That  never  once  the  live-long  day 

Her  darling  sung  the  old  love-lay 
That  't  was  her  use  to  sing  and  hum 

As  hums  the  bee  to  the  blossom  ; 
And  that  when  night  was  nearly  come 

She  took  from  its  place  in  her  bosom 
The  picture  worn  and  cherished  long, 
And  as  if  that  had  done  her  wrong, 

Or,  as  if  in  sudden  ire, 
And  it  were  something  to  abhor. 

She  laid  it,  not  as  she  used  at  night 


Among  the  rose-leaves  in  the  drawer, 
But  out  of  her  bosom  and  out  of  sight 
With  its  face  against  the  fire. 

"But  why  should  I  torment  my  heart 
(And   the   tear  from   his   cheek   he 

dashes) 
As  if  such  thoughts  had  any  part 

With  these  pale,  piteous  ashes  ?  " 
He  opens  the  lids,  and  the  eyes  are 

blue, 
"  But  these   are  frost  and  my  child's 

were  dew  ! 

No,  no  !  it  is  not  my  poor  lost  girl." 
And  he  takes  the  tresses  curl  by  curl 

And  tenderly  feels  them  over. 
"  If  it  were  she,  the  watch  I  know 
Would  never  have  dragged  her  out 

of  the  snow  — 

Why,  where  should  be  her  lover  !  " 
And  down  the  face  and  bosom  fair 
He  spread  the  long  loose  flood  of  hair, 
And  left  her  in  the  Dead-house  there, 
All  under  her  queenly  cover. 


ONE  MOMENT. 

ONE  moment,  to  strictly  run  out  by  the 

sands  — 
Time,  in  the  old  way  just  to  say  the 

old  saying  — 
Enough   for   your  giving  —  enough 

for  my  playing 
The  hope  of  a  life  in  your  sinless  white 

hands  — 
To  call  you  my  sweetheart,  and  ask 

you  to  be 

My  fond  little  fairy  and  live  by  the 
sea! 

Five  minutes  —  ten  —  twenty  !  but  lit- 

tie  to  spare, 
Yet  enough  to  repeat,  in  the  homely 

old  fashion, 
A  story  of  true  love,  unfrenzied  with 

passion  — 
To   say,  "  Will   you   make    my  rough 

weather  be  fair, 
And    give   me   each   day    your  red 

cheek  to  be  kissed  ? 
My  dear  one,  my  darling,  my  rose  of 

the  mist  ?" 

An    half   hour  !  —  would    I    dare    say 

longer  yet  — 

And   the  time  (is  so  much  you  will 
yield  to  my  wishes). 


138 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


When   luck-thriven   fishermen  draw 

their  last  fishes, 
Whose   silver  sleek    sides   in   the   sea 

dripping  net, 
And  speckles  of  red  gold,  and  scales 

thin  and  crisp, 
Through  the  fog-drizzle  shine  like  a 

Will-o'-the-wisp. 

An  hour  !    nay  more  —  until  star  after 

star 
Takes  his  watch  while  the  west-wind 

through  shadows  thick  falling, 
Holds  parley,  in  moans,  with  the  tide, 

outward  crawling, 
And  licking  the  long  shaggy  back  of 

the  bar, 
As  if  in  lamenting  some  ship  gone 

aground, 
Or    sailor,    love-lorn,    in    the    dead 

waters  drowned. 

Two  hours  !  and  not  a  hair's  breadth 

from  the  grace 
Of  your  innocent  trust  would  I  any 

more  vary 
Than  rob  of  her  lilies   the   virginal 

Mary  ; 
But  just  in  my  two  hands  would  hold 

your  fair  face, 
And  look  in  your  dove-eyes,  and  ask 

you  to  be 
My  good  little  housewife,  and  live  by 

the  sea  ! 

Till  midnight  !  till  morning  !  old  Time 

has  fleet  wings, 
And  the  space  will  be  brief,  so  my 

courage  to  steady, 
As  say,  "  Who  weds  me  may  not  be 

a  fine  lady 
With  silk  gowns  to  wear,  and  twenty 

gold  rings, 
But  with  only  a  nest  in  the  rocks, 

leaving  me 
Her  praises  to  sing  as  I  sail  on  the 

sea." 

I  would  buy  her  a  wheel,  and  some  flax- 
wisps,  and  wool, 
So  when  the  wild  gusts  of  the  winter 

were  blowing, 
And  poor  little  bird-nest  half  hid  in 

the  snowing, 
The  time  never  need  to  be  dreary  nor 

dull- 

But  smiling  the  brighter,  the  darker 
the  day, 


Her    sunshine    would 
shadows  away. 


scatter    the 


At  eve,  when  the  mist,  like  a  shawl  of 
fine  lace, 

Wrapt  her  softly  about,  like  a  queen 
in  her  splendor, 

She    still  would  sing  over  old    sea- 
songs,  so  tender, 

To   keep   her   in  mind  of  her  sailor's 
brown  face  — 

Of    his    distance   and   danger,  and 
make  her  to  be 

His  good  little  housewife  content  by 
the  sea. 

Believe  me,  sweet  sweetheart,  they  have 
but  hard  lives 

Who  go  down  to  sea  in  great  ships, 
never  knowing 

How    soon    cruel   waves    o'er   their 

heads  will  be  flowing 
And    fatherless     children,    and    true- 
hearted  wives, 

The  place  of  their  dead  never  see, 
never  know  — 

But  the  nest  waits,  my  darling,  ah  ! 
say,  will  you  go  ? 


THE  FLAX-BEATER. 

"  Now  give  me  your  burden  if  burden 

you  bear," 

So  the  flax-beater  said, 
"  And  press  out  and  wring  out  the  rain 

from  your  hair, 
And  come  into  my  shed  ; 
The    sweetest    sweet-milk    you    shall 

have  for  your  fare, 
And  the  whitest  white-bread, 
With  a  sheaf  of    the  goldenest  straw 

for  your  bed  ; 
Then  give  me  your  burden,  if  burden 

you  bear, 
And  come  into  my  shed  ! 

"  I  make  bold  to  press  my  poor  lodg 
ing  and  fare, 
For  the  wood-path  is  lone, 

Aye,  lonely  and  dark   as  a  dungeon- 
house  stair, 
And  jagged  with  stone. 

Sheer  down   the  wild    hills,    and  with 
thorn-brush  o'ergrown, 

I  have  lost  it  myself  in  despite  of  my 
care, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


139 


Though  I  'm  used  to  rough  ways  and 
have  courage  to  spare  ; 

And  then,  my  good  friend,  if  the  truth 
must  be  known, 

The  huts  of  the  settlers  that  stand  here 

and  there 
Are  as  rude  as  my  own. 

"  The  night  will  be  black  when  the  day 

shall  have  gone  ; 
'T  is  the  old  of  the  moon, 
And  the  winds  will  blow  stiff,  and  more 

stiffly  right  on. 
By  the  cry  of  the  loon  ; 
Those   terrible  storm-harps,  the  oaks, 

are  in  tune, 
That  creaking  will  fall  to  a  crashing 

anon  ; 
For  the  sake  of  your  pitiful,  poor  little 

one, 
You  cannot,  good  woman,  have  lodging 

too  soon  ! 

"Hark!    thunder!    and   see  how   the 

waters  are  piled, 
Cloud  on  cloud,  overhead  ; 
Mayhap  I  'm  too  bold,  but  I  once  had  a 

child  - 

Sweet  lady,  she  's  dead  — 
The  daffodil  growing  so  bright  and  so 

wild 

At  the  door  of  my  shed 
Is  not  yet  so  bright  as  her  glad  golden 

head, 
And  her  smile  !  ah,  if  you  could  have 

seen  how  she  smiled  ! 
But  what   need  of    praises — you  too 

have  a  child  !  " 
So  the  flax -beater  said. 

"  Ah,  the  soft  summer-days,  they  were 

all  just  as  one, 
And  how  swiftly  they  sped  ; 
When    the    daisy  scarce    bent   to   her 

fairy-like  tread, 
And  the  wife,  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel 

in  the  sun, 
Sang  sea-songs  and  ditties  of  true-love 

that  run 

All  as  smooth  as  her  thread  ; 
When  her  darling  was  gone  then  the 

singing  was  done, 
And  she  sewed  her  a  shroud  of  the  flax 

she  had  spun, 
And  a  cap  for  her  head. 

"  See,  that  cloud  running  over  the  last 
little  star, 


Like  a  great  inky  blot, 
And    now,    in   the    low    river   hollows 

afar, 
You  can  hear  the  wild  waters  through 

driftwood  and  bar, 
Boil  up  like  a  pot  ; 
It  is  as  if  the  wide  world  was  at  war, 
So  give  me  your  burden,  if  such  you 

have  got, 
And  come  to  my  shed,  for  you  must, 

will  or  not." 

"  Get  gone  you  old  man  !  I  've  no  bur 
den  to  bear  ; 
You  at  best  are  misled  ! 
And  as  for  the  rain,  let  it  fall  on  my 

hair  ; 

Is  that  so  much  to  dread, 
That  I  should  be  begging  for  lodging 

and  fare 

At  a  flax-beater's  shed  ? 
Get  gone,  and  have  done  with  your  in 
solent  stare, 
And    keep    your    gold    straw,    if    you 

leave  me  instead 
But  the  ground  for  my  bed  !  " 
'T  was  thus  the   strange  woman  with 

wringing  wet  hair 
In  her  wretchedness  said. 

"  No  burden  !  and  what  is  it  then  that 

I  trace 

Wrapt  so  close  in  your  shawl  ? 
I  remember  the  look  of  the  dear  little 

face, 
And  remember  the  look  of  the  head, 

round  and  small, 
That  I  saw  once  for  all 
Under  thin,  filmy  folds,  like  the  folds 

of  your  shawl  !  " 
"  Why,  then,    't  is    my   bride-veil    and 

gown,  have  the  grace 
To   believe  —  they   are    rolled   in    my 

kerchief  of  lace  ; 
And  that,  old  man,  is  all  !  " 

"Woman  !  woman  !  bethink  what  it  is 

that  you  say, 
Lest  it  bring  you  to  harm. 

A  bride-veil   and    gown    are    not    hid 

such  a  way 
As  the  thing  in  your  arm  !  " 

"  My  good  man,  my  dear  man,  remem 
ber,  I  pray, 

What   trifles    were    sacred    your   own 
wedding  day, 

And  leave  me  my  bride-veil  and  gown 
hid  away 


1 4o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


From  the  fret  of  the  storm. 
Oh,  soften  your  heart  to  accept  what  I 

say  — 
It  is  these,  only  these  that  I  have  in 

my  arm  !  " 

"  Only   these  !    just   a    touch    of    this 

thing,  and  I  know 
That  my  thoughts  were  misled  ! 
But    why   turn    you    pale  ?    and    why 

tremble  you  so  ? 
If  it  be  as  you  said, 
You  have  nothing  from   me  nor  from 

mortal  to  dread." 
Her  voice  fell  to  sobs,  and  she  hung 

down  her  head, 
Hugged  his  knees,  kissed  his   hands, 

kissed  his  feet  as  she  said  : 
"  Now   spare   me,   oh    spare   me   this 

death-dealing  blow, 
And  give  me  your  cold,  coldest   pity, 

instead  ; 
I  was  crazed,  and  I  spake  you  a  lie  in 

my  woe  ; 

I  am  bearing  my  dead, 
To  bury  it  out  of  my  sight,  you  must 

know  ; 
But,  good  and  sweet  sir,  I  am  wed, 

I  am  wed  !  " 

"  Unswathe  you  the  corpse,  then,  and 

give  it  to  me, 
If  that  all  be  so  well  ; 
But  what  are  these  slender  blue  marks 

that  I  see 

At  the  throat  ?     Can  you  tell  ?  " 
"  The  kisses  I  gave  it  as  it  lay  on  my 

knee  !  " 
"  And  dare  you,  false  woman,  to  lie  so 

to  me  ? " 

"  Why,  then  't  was  the  spell 
And  work  of  a  demon  that  came  out  of 

hell." 
"  Now  God  give  you  mercy,  if  mercy 

there  be, 

For  the  angels  that  fell, 
Because,   if   there   came   up  a  demon 

from  hell, 
That  demon  was  thee  !  " 


COTTAGE  AND  HALL. 

WITH  eyes  to  her  sewing-work  dropped 

down, 

And  with  hair  in  a  tangled  shower, 
And  with  roses  kissed  by  the  sun,  so 

brown, 


Young  Janey  sat  in  her  bower  — 
A  garden  nook  with  work  and  book  ; 

And  the  bars  that  crossed  her  girl 
ish  gown 
Were  as  blue  as  the  flaxen  flower. 

And  her  little  heart  it  beat  and  beat, 
Till  the  work  shook  on  her  knee, 

For   the   golden   combs   are   not  so 

sweet 
To  the  honey-fasting  bee 

As  to  her  her  thoughts  of  Alexis. 

And   across   a    good   green    piece    of 
wood, 

And  across  a  field  of  flowers, 
A  modest,  lowly  house  there  stood 

That  held  her  eyes  for  hours  — 
A  cottage  low,  hid  under  the  snow 

Of  cherry  and  bean-vine  flowers. 
Sometimes  it  held  her  all  day  long, 

For  there  at  her  distaff  bent, 
And  spinning  a  double  thread  of  song 

And  of  wool,  in  her  sweet  content, 
Sat  the  mother  of  young  Alexis. 

And  Janey  turned  things  in  and  out, 

As  foolish  maids  will  do. 
What  could  the  song  be  all  about  ? 

Yet  well  enough  she  knew 
That  while  the  fingers  drew  the  wool 

As  fine  as  fine  could  be, 
The  loving  mother-heart  was  full 

Of  her  boy  gone  to  sea  — 
Her  blue-eyed  boy,  her  pride  and  joy, 

On  the  cold  and  cruel  sea  — 
Her  darling  boy,  Alexis. 

And  beyond   the  good  green  piece  of 
wood, 

And  the  field  of  flowers  so  gay, 
Among  its  ancient  oaks  there  stood, 

With  gables  high  and  gray, 
A  lofty  hall,  where  mistress  of  all 

She  might  dance  the  night  away. 
And  as  she  sat  and  sewed  her  seam 

In  the  garden  bower  that  day 
Alike  from  seam  and  alike  from  dream 

Her  truant  thoughts  would  stray  ; 
It  would  be  so  fine  like  a  lady  to  shine, 

And  to  dance  the  night  away  ! 
And  oh,  and  alas  for  Alexis  ! 

And   suns  have  risen  and  suas   gone 

down 

On  cherry  and  bean-vine  bowers, 
And  the  tangled    curls    o'er   the  eyes 

dove-brown 
They  fall  no  more  in  showers  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


141 


Nor  are  there  bars  in   the  homespun 
gown 

As  blue  as  the  flaxen  flowers. 
Aye,  winter  wind  and  winter  rain 

Have  beaten  away  the  bowers, 
And  little  Janey  is  Lady  Jane, 

And  dances  away  the  hours  ! 
Maidens  she  hath  to  play  and  sing, 

And  her  mother's  house  and  land 
Could  never  buy  the  jeweled  ring 

She  wears  on  her  lily  hand  — 
The  hand  that  is  false  to  Alexis  ! 

Ah,    bright    were     the    sweet    young 

cheeks  and  eyes, 
And  the  silken  gown  was  gay, 
When  first  to  the  hall  as  mistress  of 

all 

She  came  on  her  wedding-day. 
"  Now   where,    my   bride,"    says    the 

groom  in  pride  — 

"  Now  where  will  your  chamber  be  ?" 
And  from  wall  to  wall  she  praises  all, 

But  chooses  the  one  by  the  sea  ! 
And  the  suns  they  rise  and  the  suns 

they  set, 

But  she  rarely  sees  their  gleam, 
For  often  her  eyes  with  tears  are  wet. 
And  the   sewing-work  is  unfinished 

yet, 
And  so  is  the  girlish  dream. 

For  when  her  ladies  gird  at  her, 
And  her  lord  is  cold  and  stern, 

Old  memories  in  her  heart  must  stir, 
And  she  cannot  choose  but  mourn 

For  the  gentle  boy,  Alexis  ! 

And  alway,  when  the  dance  is  done, 

And  her  weary  feet  are  free, 
She  sits  in  her  chamber  all  alone 

At  the  window  next  the  sea, 
And  combs  her  shining  tresses  down 

By  the  light  of  the  fading  stars, 
And  may  be  thinks  of  her  homespun 
gown 

With  the  pretty  flax-flower  bars. 
For  when  the  foam  of  wintry  gales 

Runs  white  along  the  blue, 
Hearing  the  rattle  of  stiffened  sails, 

She  trembles  through  and  through, 
And  may  be  thinks  of  Alexis. 


THE  MINES  OF  AVONDALE. 

OLD  Death  proclaims  a  holocaust  — 
Two  hundred  men  must  die  ! 


And  he  cometh  not  like  a  thief  in  the 

night, 

But  with  banners  lifted  high. 
He  calleth  the  North  wind  out  o'  th' 

North 

To  blow  him  a  signal  blast, 
And   to   plough   the   air  with   a   fiery 

share, 

And  to  sow  the  sparks,  broadcast. 
No  fear  hath  he  of  the  arm  of  flesh, 

And  he  maketh  the  winds  to  cry, 

Let  come  who  will  to  this  awful  hill 

And  his  strength  against  me  try  ! 

So  quick  those  sparks  along  the  land 

Into  blades  of  flame  have  sprung  ; 
So  quick  the  piteous  face  of  Heaven 

With  a  veil  of  black  is  hung  : 
And   men   are   telling  the   news  with 
words, 

And  women  with  tears  and  sighs, 
And  the  children  with  the  frightened 
souls 

That  are  staring  from  their  eyes. 
"  Death,  death  is  holding  a  holocaust  ! 

And  never  was  seen  such  pyre  — 
Head  packed  to  head  and  above  them 
spread 

Full  forty  feet  of  fire  !  " 

From  hill  to  hill-top  runs  the  cry. 

Through  farm  and  village  and  town, 
And   high  and  higher  —  "  The  mine  's 

on  fire  ! 

Two  hundred  men  sealed  down  ! 
And  not  with  the  dewy  hand  o'  th'  earth, 
And    not   with    the    leaves   of    the 

trees  — 
Nor  is   it   the  waves   that   roof  their 

graves  — 

Oh  no,  it  is  none  of  these  — 
From   sight  and  sound  walled   round 

and  round  — 

For  God's  sake  haste  to  the  pyre  ! 
In  the  black  coal-beds,  and  above  their 

heads 
Full  forty  feet  of  fire  !  " 

And  now  the  villages  swarm  like  bees, 

And  the  miners  catch  the  sound, 
And  climb  to  the  land  with  their  picks 
in  hand 

From  their  chambers  in  the  ground. 
For  high  and  low  and  rich  and  poor, 

To  a  holy  instinct  true, 
Stand    forth    as    if    all    hearts    were 
one 

And  a-tremble  through  and  through. 


142 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


On,  side  by  side  they  roll  like  a  tide, 
And  the  voice  grows  high  and  higher, 

"  Come  woe,  come  weal,  we  must  break 

the  seal 
Of  that  forty  feet  of  fire." 

Now  cries  of  fear,  shrill,  far  and  near, 

And  a  palsy  shakes  the  hands, 
And  the  blood  runs  cold,  for  behold, 

behold 

The  gap  where  the  enemy  stands  ! 
Oh,  never  had  painter  scenes  to  paint 

So  ghastly  and  grim  as  these  — 
Mothers    that  comfortless    sit   on   the 

ground 

With  their  babies  on  their  knees  ; 
The  brown-cheeked  lad  and  the  maid 

as  sad 

As  the  grandame  and  the  sire, 
And  'twixt  them   all   and   their  loved, 

that  wall  — 
That  terrible  wall  of  fire  ! 

And  the  grapple  begins  and  the  fore 
most  set 

Their  lives  against  death's  laws, 
And  the  blazing  timbers  catch  in  their 

arms 

And  bear  them  off  like  straws. 
They  have   lowered  the  flaunting  flag 

from  its  place  — 
They  will  die  in  the  gap,  or  save  ; 
For  this  they  have  done,  whate'er  be 

won  — 
They   have    conquered   fear  of   the 

grave. 
They  have    baffled  — have   driven  the 

enemy, 

And  with  better  courage  strive  ; 
"  Who    knoweth,"    they   say,    "  God's 

mercy  to-day, 
And  the  souls  He  may  save  alive  !  " 

So  now  the  hands  have  digged  through 
the  brands  — 

They  can  see  the  awful  stairs, 
And   there  falls    a   hush    that   is  only 
stirred 

By  the  weeping  women's  prayers. 
"  Now  who  will  peril  his  limb  and  life, 

In  the  damps  of  the  dreadful  mine  ?  " 
"  I,  I,  and  I  !  "  a  dozen  cry, 

As  they  forward  step  from  line  ! 
And  down  from  the  light  and  out  o'  th' 
sight, 

Man  after  man  they  go, 
And  now  arise  th'  unanswered  cries 

As  they  beat  on  the  doors  below. 


And  night  came  down  — what  a  woeful 

night  ! 

To  the  youths  and  maidens  fair, 
What  a  night  in  the  lives  of  the  miners' 

wives 

At  the  gate  of  a  dumb  despair. 
And   the  stars   have  set  their  solemn 

watch 

In  silence  o'er  the  hill, 
And  the  children  sleep  and  the  women 

weep, 

And  the  workers  work  with  a  will. 
And  so  the  hours  drag  on  and  on, 

And  so  the  night  goes  by, 
And  at  last  the  east  is  gray  with  dawn, 
And  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 

Hark,  hark  !  the  barricades  are  clown, 

The  torchlights  farther  spread, 
The  doubt  is  past  —  they  are  found  at 
last  — 

Dead,  dead  !  two  hundred  dead  ! 
Face,  close  to  face,  in  a  long  embrace, 

And  the  young  and  the  faded  hair  — 
Gold  over  the  snow  as  if  meant  to  show 

Love  stayed  beyond  despair. 
Two  hundred  men  at  yester  morn 

With  the  work  of  the  world  to  strive  ; 
Two  hundred  yet  when  the  day  was  set, 

And  not  a  soul  alive  ! 

Oh,  long  the  brawny  Plymouth  men, 

As  they  sit  by  their  winter  fires, 
Shall  tell  the  tale  of  Avondale 

And  its  awful  pyre  of  pyres. 
Shall   hush  their  breath  and  tell  how 
Death 

His  flag  did  wildly  wave, 
And  how  in  shrouds  of  smoky  clouds 

The  miners  fought  in  their  graves. 
And  how  in  a  still  procession 

They  passed  from  that  fearful  glen, 
And  there  shall  be  wail  in  Avondale, 

For  the  brave  two  hundred  men. 


THE  VICTORY  OF  PERRY. 

SEPTEMBER    IOTH,    1813. 

LIFT  up  the  years  !  lift  up  the  years, 
Whose  shadows  around  us  spread  ; 

Let  us  tribute  pay  to  the  brave  to-day 
Who  are  half  a  century  dead. 

Oh,  not  with  tears  —  no,  not  with  tears, 
The  grateful  nation  comes, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


143 


But  with  flags  out-thrown,  and  bugles 

blown, 
And  the  martial  roll  of  drums  ! 

Beat  up,  beat  up  !  till  memory  glows 
And  sets  our  hearts  aflame  ! 

Ah,  they  did  well  in  the  fight  who  fell, 
And  we  leave  them  to  their  fame  ; 

Their  fame,  that  larger,  grander  grows 

As  time  runs  into  the  past, 
For  the   Erie-waves   chant   over  their 
graves, 

And  shall,  while  the  world  shall  last. 

O  beautiful  cities  of  the  Lake, 
As  ye  sit  by  your  peaceful  shore, 

Make' glad  and    sing    till  the    echoes 

ring, 
For  our  brave  young  Commodore  ! 

He  knew  your  stormy  oaks  to  take 
And  their  ribs  into  ships  contrive, 

And  to  set  them  so  fine  in  battle  line, 
With  their  timbers  yet  alive.1 

We  see  our  squadron  lie  in  the  Bay 

Where  it  lay  so  long  ago, 
And  hear  the  cry  from  the  mast-head 
high, 

Three  times,  and  three,  "  Sail  ho  !  " 

Through  half  a  century  to-day 
We  hear  the  signal  of  fight  — 

"  Get  under  way  !     Get  under  way  ! 
The  enemy  is  in  sight ! " 

Our  hearts  leap  up  —  our  pulses  thrill, 
As  the  boatswains'  pipes  of  joy 

So   loudly   play  o'er   the    dash   o'   the 

spray, 
"  All  hands  up  anchor  ahoy  !  " 

Now  all  is  still,  aye,  deathly  still  ; 

The  enemy's  guns  are  in  view  ! 
"  To  the  royal  fore!"  cries  the  Com 
modore, 

And  up  run  the  lilies  and  blue.2 

And   hark   to  the    cry,  the  great  glad 

cry, — 
All  a-tremble  the  squadron  stands  — 

1  Perry,  it  will  be  remembered,  cut  down  the  trees, 
built  and  launched  the  ships  of  his  fleet,  all  within 
three  months. 

2  The  famous  fighting  flag  was  inscribed  with  the 
immortal  words  of  the  dying  Lawrence,  in  large  white 
letters  on  a  blue  ground,  legible  throughout  the  squad 
ron. 


From  lip   to   lip,  "Don't  give  up  the 

ship  f  " 
And  then  "  To  quarters,  all  hands  /  " 

An  hour,  an  awful  hour  drags  by  — 
There  's    a  shot   from    the    enemy's 

gun  ! 

"  More  sail 7    More  sail !    Let  the  can 
ister  hail!" 
Cries  Perry,  and  forward,  as  one, 

Caledonia,  Lawrence,  and  Scorpion,  all 
Bear   down   and    stand  fast,  till  the 

flood 
Away  from  their  track  sends  the  scared 

billows  back 
With  their  faces  bedabbled  in  blood. 

The  Queen  x  and  her  allies  their  broad 
sides  let  fall  — 
Oh,    the   Lawrence  is   riddled   with 

storms  — 
Where  is  Perry  ?  afloat !  he  is  safe  in 

his  boat, 
And  his  battle-flag  up  in  his  arms  ! 

The  bullets  they  hiss  and  the  English- 

'   men  shout  — 
Oh,    the    Lawrence    is    sinking,    a 

wreck  — 
But  with  flag  yet  a-swing  like  a  great 

bloody  wing 
Perry  treads  the  Niagara's  deck  ! 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  has  wheeled 

her  about  — 

Oh,  the  nation  is  holding  its  breath  — 
Headforemost  he  goes  in  the  midst  of 

his  foes 

And  breaks  them  and  rakes  them  to 
death  ! 

And  lo,  the  enemy,  after  the  fray, 
On  the  deck  that  his  dead  have  lined, 

With  his  sword-hilt  before  to  our  Com 
modore, 
And  his  war-dogs  in  leash  behind  ! 

And  well,  the  nation  does  well  to-day, 
Setting  her  bugles  to  blow, 

And  her  drums  to  beat  for  the  glorious 

fleet 
That  humbled  her  haughty  foe. 

Ah,    well    to    come    with    her    autumn 

flowers, 
A  tribute  for  the  brave 

1  Queen  CJiarlotte  of  the  British  line. 


144 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Who  died  to  make  our  Erie  Lake 
Echo  through  every  wave  — 

"  We  've  met  the  enemy  and  they  ''re 
ours  !  " 

And  who  died,  that  we  might  stand, 
A  country  free  and  mistress  at  Sea 

As  well  as  on  the  Land. 


THE  WINDOW  JUST  OVER  THE 
STREET. 

I  SIT  in  my  sorrow  a-weary,  alone  ; 
I  have  nothing  sweet  to  hope  or  re 
member, 
For  the  spring  o'  th'  year  and  of  life 

has  flown  ; 
'Tis   the   wildest  night  o'  the  wild 

December, 

And  dark  in  my  spirit  and  dark  in 
my  chamber. 

I  sit  and  list  to  the  steps  in  the  street, 
Going  and  coming,  and  coming  and 

going, 
And  the  winds  at  my  shutter  they  blow 

and  beat  ; 
'T  is   the  middle   of  night  and   the 

clouds  are  snowing  ; 
And  the  winds  are   bitterly  beating 
and  blowing. 

I  list  to  the  steps  as  they  come  and 

g°> 

And  list  to  the  winds  that  are  beat 
ing  and  blowing, 

And  my  heart  sinks  down  so  low,  so 
low  ; 

No  step  is  stayed  from  me  by  the 
snowing, 

Nor  stayed  by  the  wind  so  bitterly 
blowing. 

I    think  of  the  ships  that  are  out  at 
sea, 

Of  the  wheels  in  th'  cold,  black  wa 
ters  turning  ; 

Not  one  of  the  ships  beareth  news  to 
me, 

And  my  head  is  sick,  and  my  heart 
is  yearning, 

As  I  think  of  the  wheels  in  the  black 
waters  turning. 

Of  the   mother   I    think,  by   her  sick 
baby's  bed, 


Away  in  her  cabin  as  lonesome  and 

dreary, 
And  little  and  low  as  the  flax-breaker's 

shed; 
Of  her  patience  so  sweet,  and  her 

silence  so  weary, 
With  cries  of  the  hungry  wolf  hid  in 

the  prairie. 

I  think  of  all  things  in  the  world  that 
are  sad  ; 

Of  children  in   homesick  and    com 
fortless  places  ; 

Of  prisons,  of  dungeons,  of  men  that 
are  mad ; 

Of  wicked,  unwomanly  light  in  the 
faces 

Of  women  that  fortune  has  wronged 
with  disgraces. 

I  think  of  a  dear  little  sun-lighted  head, 
That  came  where  no  hand  of  us  all 

could  deliver  ; 
And  crazed  with  the  cruelest  pain  went 

to  bed 

Where   the   sheets   were  the  foam- 
fretted  waves  of  the  river  ; 
Poor  darling  !  may  God  in  his  mercy 
forgive  her. 

The   footsteps   grow  faint    and   more 

faint  in  the  snow  ; 

I   put  back  the  curtain  in  very  de 
spairing  ; 
The   masts    creak   and    groan    as    th' 

winds  come  and  go  ; 
And  the  light  in  the  light-house  all 

weirdly  is  flaring  ; 

But  what  glory  is  this,  in  the  gloom 
of  despairing  ! 

I    see    at   the   window    just  over  the 
street, 

A  maid  in  the  lamplight  her  love- 
letter  reading. 

Her  red  mouth  is  smiling,  her  news  is 
so  sweet ; 

And  the  heart  in  my  bosom  is  cured 
of  its  bleeding, 

As  I  look  on  the  maiden  her  love- 
letter  reading. 

She  has  finished  the  letter,  and  folding 

it,  kisses, 
And  hides  it  —  a  secret  too  sacred 

to  know  ; 
And  now  in  the  hearth-light  she  softly 

undresses  : 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


A  vision   of    grace   in   the    roseate 

glow, 
I  see  her  unbinding  the  braids  of  her 

tresses. 

And  now  as  she  stoops  to  the  ribbon 

that  fastens 

Her  slipper,  they  tumble  o'er  shoul 
der  and  face  ; 
And  now,  as  she  patters  in  bare  feet, 

she  hastens 

To  gather  them  up  in  a  fillet  of  lace  ; 
And  now  she  is  gone,  but  in  fancy  I 
trace 

The    lavendered    linen    updrawn,   the 
round  arm 

Half     sunk     in    the     counterpane's 

broidered  roses. 

Revealing     the    exquisite    outline    of 
form  ; 

A  willowy  wonder  of  grace  that  re 
poses 

Beneath     the     white     counterpane, 
fleecy  with  roses. 

I   see   the  small  hand  lying  over  the 

heart, 
Where  the  passionate  dreams  are  so 

sweet  in  their  sally  ; 
The  fair  little  fingers  they  tremble  and 

part, 
As  part  to  th'  warm  waves  the  leaves 

of  the  lily, 
And  they  play  with  her  hand  like  the 

waves  with  the  lily. 

In  white  fleecy  flowers,  the  queen   o' 

the  flowers  ! 
What   to  her  is   the  world  with   its 

bad,  bitter  weather  ? 
Wide  she  opens  her  arms  —  ah,  her 

world  is  not  ours  ! 
And  now  she  has  closed  them  and 

clasped  them  together  — 
What  to  her  is  our  world,  with  its 
clouds  and  rough  weather  ? 

Hark  !  midnight !   the  winds   and   the 

snows  blow  and  beat ; 
I  drop  down  the  curtain  and  say  to 

my  sorrow, 
Thank  God  for  the  window  just  over 

the  street ; 
Thank  God  there  is  always  a  light 

whence  to  borrow 

When  darkness  is  darkest,  and  sor 
row  most  sorrow. 
10 


A   FABLE   OF   CLOUD-LAND. 

Two  clouds  in  the  early  morning 

Came  sailing  up  the  sky  — 
'T  was  summer,  and  the  meadow-lands 

Were  brown  and  baked  and  dry. 

And  the  higher  cloud  was   large   and 

black, 

And  of  a  scornful  mind, 
And  he  sailed  as  though  he  turned  his 

back 
On  the  smaller  one  behind. 

At  length,  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
He  said  to  his  mate  so  small, 

"  If  I  was  n't  a  bigger  cloud  than  you, 
I  would  n't  be  one  at  all  !  " 

And    the    little    cloud    that    held   her 
place 

So  low  along  the  sky, 
Grew  red,  then  purple,  in  the  face, 

And  then  she  began  to  cry  ! 

And    the    great  cloud   thundered   out 
again 

As  loud  as  loud  could  be, 
"  Lag  lowly  still,  and  cry  if  you  will, 

I  'm  going  to  go  to  sea  ! 

"  The  land  don't  give  me  back  a  smile, 

I  will  leave  it  to  the  sun, 
And  will   show  you   something  worth 
your  while, 

Before  the  day  is  done  !  " 

So  off  he  ran,  without  a  stop, 

Upon  his  sea  voyage  bent, 
And  he  never  shed  a  single  drop 

On  the  dry  land  as  he  went. 

And  directly  came  a  rumble 

Along  the  air  so  dim  ; 
And  then  a  crash,  and  then  a  dash, 

And  the  sea  had  swallowed  him  ! 

"  I  don't  make  any  stir  at  all," 
Said  the  little  cloud,  with  a  sigh, 

And  her  tears  began  like  rain  to  fall 
On  the  meadows  parched  and  dry. 

And  over  the  rye  and  the  barley 

They  fell  and  fell  all  day, 
And   soft  and  sweet  on  the  fields  of 
wheat, 

Till  she  wept  her  heart  away. 


146 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


And  the  bean-flowers  and   the  buck 
wheat, 

They  scented  all  the  air, 
And  in  the  time  of  the  harvest 

There   was    bread    enough    and   to 
spare. 

I  know  a  man  like  that  great  cloud 

As  much  as  he  can  live, 
And  he  gives  his  alms  with  thunder 
cloud 

Where  there  is  no  need  to  give. 

And  I  know  a  woman  who  doth  keep 
Where  praise  comes  not  at  all, 

Like  the  modest  cloud  that  could  but 

weep 
Because  she  was  so  small. 

The  name  of  the   one   the   poor  will 
bless 

When  her  day  shall  cease  to  be, 
And  the  other  will  fall  as  profitless 

As  the  cloud  did  in  the  sea. 


BARBARA  AT  THE   WINDOW. 

CLOSE   at   the    window-pane    Barbara 

stands  ; 
•  The  walls  o'  th'  dingy  old  house  are 

aglow  ; 
Pressing  her  cheeks  are  her  two  little 

hands, 

Drooping  her  eyelids  so  meek  and  so 
low. 

What  do  you  see  little  Barbara  ?    Say  ! 
The  walls  o'  th'  dingy  old  house  are 

aglow  ; 
The   leaves   they   are   down,  and   the 

birds  are  away, 

And   lilac   and   rosebush   are   white 
with  the  snow. 

An  hour  the  sun  has  been  out  o'  th' 

west ; 
The  walls  o'  th'  poor  little  house  are 

aglow  ; 
Come,  Barbara,  come  to  th'  hearth  with 

th'  rest, 

Right  gayly  she  tosses  her  curls  for 
a  "  No  !  " 

The   grandmother   sits    in  her   straw- 
bottom  chair  ; 

And  rafter  and  wall  they  are  brightly 
aglow  ; 


The  dear  little  mother  is  knitting  a  pair 
Of  scarlet-wool  stockings  tipt  white 
at  th'  toe. 

A  glad  girl  and  boy  are  at  play  by  her 

knee  ; 
The  walls  o'  th'  poor  little  house  are 

aglow  ! 
Now  driving  th'  crickets,  for  cows,  in 

their  glee, 

Now  rolling  the  yarn-balls  o'  scarlet 
and  snow. 

And  now  they  are  fishers,  with  nets  in 

the  stream ; 
And  rafter  and  wall  o'  the  house  are 

aglow  ; 
Or  sleeping,  or  waking,  their  lives  are 

a  dream  ; 

But  what  seeth  Barbara,  there  in  the 
snow  ? 

And  th'  voice  of  Barbara  ringeth  out 

clear  ; 
The   walls,  the   rough   rafters,  how 

brightly  they  glow  ; 
If  you  will  believe  me,  I  see  you  all 

here  ! 

Our  dear  little  room  seemeth  double, 
you  know. 

The  fire,  the  tea-kettle   swung  on  the 

crane  ; 
And  rafter  and  wall  with  the  candle 

aglow  ; 
Grandmother  and   mother,  right  over 

again  ! 

And  Peter,  and  Katharine,  all  in  the 
snow. 

Sweet  Barbara,  standing  so  close  to  th' 

pane, 
With   the   walls   o'   th'   little   house 

brightly  aglow  ; 

You  will  only  see  everything  over  again, 
Whatever  you  see,  and  wherever  you 
go! 


BARBARA  IN   THE  MEADOW. 

THE  morn  is  hanging  her  fire-fringed 

veil, 
Made  of  the   mist,  o'er   the  walnut 

boughs, 

And  Barbara,  with  her  cedar  pail, 
Comes  to   the   meadow  to   call   the 
cows. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


"  The  little  people  that  live  in  the  air 
Are    not    for    my   human   hands    to 
wrong," 

Says  Barbara,  and  her  loving  prayer 
Takes  them  up  as  it  goes  along. 

Gay   sings   the   miller,  and   Barbara's 

mouth 

Purses  with  echoes  it  will  not  repeat, 
And  the  rose  on  her  cheek  hath  a  May 
day's  growth 

In  the  line  with  the  ending,  "  I  love 
you,  sweet." 

Yonder  the  mill  is,  small  and  white, 

Hung  like  a  vapor  among  the  rocks  — 
Good  spirits  say  to  her  morn  and  night, 
"  Barbara,    Barbara  !    stay   with    your 
flocks." 

Stay  for  the  treasures  you  have  to  keep, 
Cherish  the  love  that   you   know  is 

true  ; 
Though  stars  should  shine  in  the  tears 

you  weep, 

They  never  would  come  out  of  heaven 
to  you. 

And  were  you  to  follow  the  violet  veins 
Over  the  hills  —  to  the  ends  of  the 

earth, 
Barbara,  what  would  you  get  for  your 

pains, 

More  than  your   true-love's    love  is 
worth  ? 

So,  never  a  thought  about  braver  mills, 
Of    prouder  lovers    your   dreaming 

cease  ; 

A  world  is  shut  in  among  these  hills  — 
Stay   in   it,  Barbara,  stay,  for   your 
peace  ! 


BALLAD   OF   UNCLE  JOE. 

WHEN    I    was    young  —  it   seems   as 
though 

There  never  were  such  when  — 
There  lived  a  man  that  now  I  know 

Was  just  the  best  of  men  ; 
I  '11  name  him  to  you,  "  Uncle  Joe," 

For  so  we  called  him  then. 

A  poor  man  he,  that  for  his  bread 
Must  work  with  might  and  main. 

The  humble  roof  above  his  head 
Scarce  kept  him  from  the  rain  ; 


But  so  his  dog  and  he  were  fed, 
He  sought  no  other  gain. 

His  steel-blue  axe,  it  was  his  pride, 

And  over  wood  and  wave 
Its  music  rang  out  far  and  wide, 

His  strokes  they  were  so  brave  ; 
Excepting  that  some  neighbor  died, 

And  then  he  dug  his  grave. 

And  whether  it  were  wife  or  child, 

An  old  man,  or  a  maid, 
An  infant  that  had  hardly  smiled, 

Or  youth,  so  lowly  laid, 
The  yellow  earth  was  always  piled 

Above  them  by  his  spade. 

For  spade  he  had,  and  grubbing-hoe, 
And  hence  the  people  said 

It  was  not  much  that  Uncle  Joe 
Should  bury  all  the  dead  ; 

So  rich  and  poor,  and  high  and  low, 
He  made  them  each  a  bed. 

The  funeral-bell  was  like  a  jog 

Upon  his  wits,  they  say, 
That  made  him  leave  his  half-cut  log 

At  any  time  of  day, 
And  whistle  to  his  brindle  dog 

And  light  his  pipe  of  clay. 

When  winter  winds  around  him  drave 
And  made  the  snow-flakes  spin, 

I  've  seen  him  —  for  he  did  not  save 
His  strength,  for  thick  nor  thin  — 

His  bare  head  just  above  the  grave 
That  he  was  standing  in. 

His  simple  mind  was  almost  dark 
To  school-lore,  that  is  true  ; 

The  wisdom  he  had  gained  at  work 
Was  nearly  all  he  knew  ; 

But  ah,  the  way  he  made  his  mark 
Was  honest,  through  and  through. 

'T  was  not  among  the  rulers  then 

That  he  in  council  sat ; 
They  used  to  say  that  with  his  pen 

His  fingers  were  not  pat ; 
But  he  was  still  a  gentleman 

For  all  and  all  of  that. 

The  preacher  in  his  silken  gown 

Was  not  so  well  at  ease 
As  he,  with  collar  lopping  down 

And  patches  at  his  knees, 
The  envy  of  our  little  town, 

He  had  n't  a  soul  to  please  ; 


148 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Nor  wife  nor  brother,  chick  nor  child, 

Nor  any  kith  nor  kin. 
Perhaps  the  townsfolk  were  beguiled 

And  the  envy  was  a  sin, 
But  his   look  of   sweetness   when   he 
smiled 

Betokened  joy  within. 

He  sometimes  took  his  holiday, 
And  ?t  was  a  pleasant  sight 

To  see  him  smoke  his  pipe  of  clay, 
As  if  all  the  world  went  right, 

While  his  brindle  dog  beside  him  lay 


A-winkinj 


at  the  light. 


He  took  his  holiday,  and  so 
His  face  with  gladness  shone  ; 

But,  ah  !  I  cannot  make  you  know 
One  bliss  he  held  alone, 

Unless  the  heart  of  Uncle  Joe 
Were  beating  in  your  own  ! 

He  had  an  old  cracked  violin, 
And  I  just  may  whisper  you 

The  music  was  so  weak  and  thin 
'T  was  like  to  an  ado, 

As  he  drew  the  long  bow  out  and  in 
To  all  the  tune  he  knew. 

From  January  on  till  June, 

And  back  again  to  snow, 
Or  in  the  tender  light  o'  the  moon, 

Or  by  the  hearth-fire's  glow, 
To  that  old-fashioned,  crazy  tune 

He  made  his  elbow  go  ! 

Ah !    then   his   smile   would   come   so 
sweet 

It  brightened  all  the  air, 
And  heel  and  toe  would  beat  and  beat 

Till  the  ground  of  grass  was  bare, 
As  if  that  little  lady  feet 

Were  dancing  with  him  there  ! 

His  finger  nails,  so   bruised   and  flat, 
Would  grow  in  this  employ 

To  such  a  rosy  roundness  that 
He  almost  seemed  a  boy, 

And  even  the  old  crape  on  his  hat 
Would  tremble  as  with  joy. 

So,     digging    graves,    and     chopping 
wood, 

He  spent  the  busy  day, 
And  always,  as  a  wise  man  should, 

Kept  evil  thoughts  at  bay  ; 
For  when  he  could  not  speak  the  good, 

He  had  n't  a  word  to  say. 


And  so  the  years  in  shine  and  storm 

Went  by,  as  years  will  go, 
Until  at  last  his  palsied  arm 

Could  hardly  draw  the  bow  ; 
Until  he  crooked  through  all  his  form, 

Much  like  his  grubbing-hoe. 

And  then  his  axe  he  deeply  set, 

And  on  the  wall-side  pegs 
Hung  hoe  and  spade  ;  no  fear  nor  fret 

That  life  was  at  the  dregs, 
But  walked  about  of  a  warm  day  yet, 

With  his  dog  between  his  legs. 

Sometimes,  as  one  who  almost  grieves, 

His  memory  would  recall 
The  merry-making  Christmas  Eves, 

The  frolic,  and  the  ball, 
Till  his  hands  would  shake  like  with 
ered  leaves 

And  his  pipe  go  out  and  fall. 

Then    all    his    face    would    grow    as 
bright  — 

So  I  have  oft  heard  say  — 
As  if  that,  being  lost  in  the  night, 

He  saw  the  dawn  o'  the  day  ; 
As  if  from  a  churlish,  chilling  height 

He  saw  the  light  o'  the  May. 

One  winter  night  the  fiddle-bow 
His  fingers  ceased  to  tease, 

And  they  found  him   by  the  morning 

glow 
Beneath  his  door-yard  trees, 

Wrapt  in  the  ermine  of  the  snow, 
And  royally  at  ease. 

What    matter    that    the    winds    were 
wild! 

He  did  not  hear  their  din, 
But  hugging,  as  it  were  his  child, 

Against  his  grizzly  chin, 
The  treasure  of  his  life,  he  smiled, 

For  all  was  peace  withi'n. 

And  when  they  drew  the  vest  apart 

To  fold  the  hands  away, 
They  found  a  picture  past  all  art 

Of  painting,  so  they  say  ; 
And    they   turned   the  face   upon   the 
heart, 

And  left  it  where  it  lay. 

And  one,  a  boy  with  golden  head, 
Made  haste  and  strung  full  soon 

The  crazy  viol  ;  for  he  said, 
Mayhap  beneath  the  moon 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


149 


They  danced  sometime  a  merry  tread 
To  the  beloved  tune. 

And  many  an  eye  with  tears  was  dim 
The  while  his  corse  they  bore  ; 

No  hands  had  ever  worked  for  him 
Since  he  was  born  before  ; 

Nor  could  there  come  an  hour  so  grim 
That  he  should  need  them  more. 

The  viol,  ready  tuned  to  play, 

The  sadly-silent  bow, 
The  axe,  the  pipe  of  yellow  clay, 

Are  in  his  grave  so  low  ; 
And  there  is  nothing  more  to  say 

Of  poor  old  Uncle  Joe. 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

HER  voice  was  tender  as  a  lullaby, 
Making    you     think    of    milk-white 

dews  that  creep 
Among    th'    mid-May    violets,    when 

they  lie, 
All  in  yellow  moonlight  fast  asleep. 

Aye,  tender  as  that  most  melodious  tone 
The    lark    has,    when    within    some 

covert  dim 
With  leaves,  he  talks  with  morning  all 

alone, 

Persuading  her  to  rise  and  come  to 
him. 

Shy  in   her  ways  ;  her  father's    cattle 

knew  — 
No     neighbor    half     so    well  —  her 

footstep  light, 

For  by  the  pond  where  mint  and  mal 
lows  grew 

Always  she  came    and  called  them 
home  at  night. 


A  sad,  low  pond  that  cut  the  field  in 

two 
Wherein  they  ran,  and  never  billow 

sent 

To  play  with  any  breeze,  but  still  with 
drew 
Into  itself,  in  wrinkled,  dull  content. 

And  here,  through  mint   and  mallows 

she  would  stray, 
Musing  the  while  she  called,  as  it 

might  be 
On  th'  cold  clouds,  or  winds  that  with 

rough  gray 

Shingled  the  landward  slope  of  the 
near  sea. 

God  knows  !  not  I,  on  what  she  mused 

o'  nights 
Straying  about   the  pond  :  she  had 

no  woe 

To  think  upon,  they  said,  nor  such  de 
lights 

As  maids  are  wont  to  hide.     I  only 
know 

We  do  not  know  the  weakness  or  the 

•  worth 
Of  any  one  :  th'  Sun  as  he  will  may 

trim 
His  golden  lights  ;  he  cannot  see  the 

earth 

He  loves,  but  on  the  side  she  turns 
to  him. 

I  only  know  that  when  this  lonesome 

pond 
Lifted    the    buried    lilies    from    its 

breast 
One  warm,  wet   day  (I  nothing  know 

beyond), 

It  lifted  her  white  face  up  with  the 
rest. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND   FEELING. 


ON  SEEING  A  DROWNING  MOTH- 

POOR  little  moth  !  thy  summer  sports 

were  done, 

Had  I  not  happened  by  this  pool  to  lie  ; 
But  thou  hast  pierced  my  conscience 

very  sore 
With  thy  vain   flounderings,  so   come 

ashore 

In  the  safe  hollow  of  my  helpful  hand,  — 
Rest   thee   a   little  on  the  warm,  dry 

sand, 
Then    crawling   out  into    the   friendly 

sun, 
As  best  thou  mayest,  get  thy  wet  wings 

dry. 
Aye,  it  has  touched  my  conscience,  little 

moth, 
To  see  thy  bright  wings  made  for  other 

use, 
Haply  for    just    a    moment's    chance 

abuse, 
Dragging  thee,  thus,  to  death  ;  yet  am 

I  loath 

To  heed  the  lesson,  for  I  fain  would  lie 
Along  the  margin  of  this  water  low 
And  watch  the  sunshine  run  in  tender 

gleams 
Down  the   gray  elders  —  watch   those 

flowers  of  light,  — 
If  flowers  they  be,  and  not  the  golden 

dreams 
Left    in    her    grassy    pillows    by    the 

night,  — 
The  dandelions,  that  trim  the  shadows 

so, 
And  watch  the  wild  flag,  with  her  eyes 

of  blue 

Wide  open  for  the  sun  to  look  into,  — 
Her  green  skirts  laid  along  the  wind, 

and  she, 
As  if  to  mar  fair  fortune  wantonly, 


Wading     along    the    water,    half    her 

height. 
Fain  would  I  lie,  with  arms  across  my 

breast, 

As  quiet  as  yon  wood-duck  on  her  nest, 
That  sits  the  livelong  day  with  ruffled 

quills, 

Waiting  to  see  the  little  yellow  bills 
Breach  the  white  walls  about  them,  — 

would  that  I 
Could    find    out    some    sweet    charm 

wherewith  to  buy 
A  too  uneasy  conscience,  —  then  would 

Rest 

Gather  and  fold  me  to  itself  ;  and  last, 
Forgetting  the  hereafter  and  the  past, 
My  soul  would  have  the  present  for  its 

guest, 
And  grow  immortal. 

So,  my  little  fool, 
Thou  'rt  back  upon  the  water  !  Lord  ! 

how  vain 
The  strife  to  save  or  man  or  moth  from 

pain 

Merited  justly,  —  having  thy  wild  way 
To  travel  all  the  air,  thou  comest  here 
To  try  with  spongy  feet  the  treacher 
ous  pool  ; 
Well,  thou  at  least  hast  made  one  truth 

more  clear,  — 
Men  make  their  fate,  and  do  not  fate 

obey. 


GOOD  AND  EVIL. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 
JULIUS 


ONCE  when  the  messenger  that  stays 
For  all,  beside  me  stood, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


I   mused  on  what  great  Shakespeare 

says 
Of  evil  and  of  good. 

And  shall  the  evil  1  have  done 

Live  after  me  ?  I  said  ; 
When  lo  !  a  splendor  like  the  sun 

Shone  round  about  my  bed. 

And  a  sweet  spirit  of  the  skies 

Near  me,  yet  all  apart, 
In  whispers  like  the  low  wind's  sighs, 

Spake  to  my  listening  heart  ; 

Saying,  your  poet,  reverenced  thus, 
For  once  hath  been  unwise  ; 

The  good  we  do  lives  after  us, 
The  evil  't  is  that  dies  ! 

Evil  is  earthy,  of  the  earth,  — 

A  thing  of  pain  and  crime, 
That  scarcely  sends  a  shadow  forth 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

But  good,  in  substance,  dwells  above 

This  discontented  sphere, 
Extending  only,  through  God's  love, 

Uncertain  shadows  here. 


STROLLER'S   SONG. 

THE  clouds  all  round  the  sky  are  black, 
As  it  never  would  shine  again  ; 

But  I  '11  sling  my  wallet  over  my  back, 
And  trudge  in  spite  of  the  rain  ! 

And  if  there  rise  no  star  to  guide 

My  feet  when  day  is  gone, 
I  'll  shift  my  wallet  the  other  side, 

And  trudge  right  on  and  on. 

For  this  of  a  truth  I  always  note, 
And  shape  my  course  thereby, 

That  Nature  has  never  an  overcoat 
To  keep  her  furrows  dry. 

And  how  should  the  hills  be  clothed 
with  grain, 

The  vales  with  flowers  be  crowned, 
But  for  the  chain  of  the  silver  rain 

That  draws  them  out  of  the  ground  ! 

So  I  will  trudge  with  heart  elate, 
And  feet  with  courage  shod, 

For  that  which  men  call  chance  and  fate 
Is  the  handiwork  of  God. 


There  's  time  for  the  night  as  well  as 

the  morn, 

For  the  dark  as  the  shining  sky  ; 
The  grain  of  the  corn  and  the  flower 

unborn 
Have  rights  as  well  as  I. 


A   LESSON. 

ONE    autumn-time    I    went     into     the 

woods 

When  Nature  grieves, 
And  wails  the  drying  up  of  the  bright 

floods 
Of  summer  leaves. 

The  rose  had  drawn  the  green  quilt  of 

the  grass 
Over  her  head, 
And,    taking  off    her  pretty,  rustling 

dress, 
Had  gone  to  bed. 


And,    while    the    wind    went    ruffling 

through  her  bovver 
To  do  her  harm, 
lay  and  slept  aw 
All  safe  and  warm. 


She  lay  and  slept  away  the  frosty  hour, 
ll 


The  little  bird  that  came  when  May  was 
new, 

And  sang  her  best, 
Had  gone,  —  I  put  my  double  hand  into 

Her  chilly  nest. 

Then,  sitting   down   beneath  a  naked 
tree, 

I  looked  about,  — 
Saying,  in  these,  if  there  a  lesson  be, 

I  '11  spy  it  out. 

And   presently  the  teaching  that  was 
meant 

I  thought  I  saw,  — 
That  I,  in  trial,  should  patiently  consent 

To  God's  great  law. 


HE   spoils  his   house  and  throws  his 

pains  away 
Who,   as  the  sun  veers,  builds    his 

windows  o'er, 
For,  should  he  wait,  the  Light,  some 

time  of  day, 

Would  come  and  sit  beside  him  in 
his  door. 


152 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


ON   SEEING  A  WILD   BIRD. 

BEAUTIFUL  symbol  of  a  freer  life, 
Knowing  no  purpose,  and  yet  true  to 

one  ; 
Would  I  could  learn  thy  wisdom,  I 

who  run 

This  way  and  that,  striving  against  my 
strife. 

No   fancy  vague,  no   object   half  un 
known, 
Diverts  thee  from  thyself.    By  stops 

and  starts 

I  live  the  while  by  little  broken  parts 
A  thousand  lives,  —  not  one  of  all,  my 
own. 

Thou  sing'st  thy  full  heart  out,  and  low 

or  high 

Flyest  at  pleasure  ;  who  of  us  can  say 
He  lives  his  inmost  self  e'en  for  a 

day, 

And  does  the  thing   he  would  ?   alas, 
not  I. 

We  hesitate,  go  backward,  and  return, 
And  when  the  earth  with  living  sun 
shine  gleams, 
We  make  a  darkness  round  us  with 

our  dreams, 

And  wait  for  that  which  we  ourselves 
should  earn. 

For  we  shall  work  out  answers  to  our 

needs 

If  we  have  continuity  of  will 
To  hold  our  shifting  purposes  until 
They  germinate,  and  bring  forth  fruit 
in  deeds. 

We   ask   and   hope   too    much,  —  too 

lightly  press 
Toward  the  end  sought,  and  haply 

learn,  at  length, 
That    we     have     vainly    dissipated 

strength 

Which,     concentrated,      would     have 
Drought  success. 

But  Truth  is  sure,  and  can  afford  to 

wait 
Our  slow  perception,  (error  ebbs  and 

flows  ;) 

Her  essence  is  eternal,  and  she  knows 
The  world  must   swing   round  to  her, 
soon  or  late. 


RICH,   THOUGH   POOR. 

RED  in  the  east  the  morning  broke, 
And  in  three  chambers  three  men 

woke  ; 

One  through  curtains  wove  that  night 
In  the  loom  of  the  spicier,  saw  the  light 
Lighting  the  rafters  black  and  old, 
And  sighed  for  the  genii  to  make  them 

gold. 

One  in  a  chamber,  high  and  fair, 
With  paneled  ceilings,  enameled  rare, 
On  the  purple  canopy  of  his  bed 
Saw  the  light  with  a  sluggard's  dread, 
And  buried  his  sullen  and  sickly  face 
Deep  in  his  pillow  fringed  with  lace. 

One,  from  a  low  and  grassy  bed, 
With  the  golden  air  for  a  coverlet ; 
No  ornaments  had  he  to  wear 
But  his  curling  beard  and  his  coal-black 

hair  ; 
His  wealth   was   his   acres,  and   oxen 

twain, 

And  health  was  his  cheerful  chamber 
lain. 

Night  fell  stormy  —  "  Woe  is  me  !  " 
Sighed  so  wearily  two  of  the  three  ; 
"  The  corn  I  planted  to-day  will 

sprout," 
Said  one,  "  and  the  roses  be  blushing1 

out ;  " 
And  his  heart  with  its  joyful  hope  o'er- 

ran : 
Think  you  he  was  the  poorest  man  ? 


STILL  from  the  unsatisfying  quest 

To  know  the  final  plan, 
I  turn  my  soul  to  what  is  best 

In  nature  and  in  man. 


THE   glance   that   doth   thy   neighbor 
doubt 

Turn  thou,  O  man,  within, 
And  see  if  it  will  not  bring  out 

Some  unsuspected  sin. 

To  hide  from  shame  the  branded  brow, 

Make  broad  thy  charity, 
And  judge  no  man,  except  as  thou 

Woulclsthave  him  judge  of  thee. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


153 


SIXTEEN. 

SUPPOSE  your  hand  with  power  sup 
plied,  — 

Say,  would  you  slip  it  'neath  my  hair, 
And  turn  it  to  the  golden  side 


Of 


sixteen 
dare? 


years  ?      Suppose    you 


And  I  stood  here  with  smiling  mouth, 
Red   cheeks,   and   hands    all   softly 
white, 

Exceeding  beautiful  with  youth, 

And  that  some  sly,  consenting  sprite, 

Brought  dreams  as  bright  as  dreams 

can  be, 

To  keep  the  shadows  from  my  brow, 
And  plucked  down  hearts  to  pleasure 

me, 
As  you  would  roses  from  a  bough  ; 

What  could  I  do  then  ?  idly  wear  — 
While    all   my  mates    went  on   be 
fore  — 

The  bashful  looks  and  golden  hair 
Of  sixteen  years,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Nay,  done  with  youth  is  my  desire, 
To  Time  I  give  no  false  abuse, 

Experience  is  the  marvelous  fire 
That  welds  our  knowledge  into  use. 

And  all  its  fires  of  heart,  or  brain, 
Where     purpose     into     power    was 
wrought, 

I  'd  bear,  and  gladly  bear  again, 

Rather  than  be  put  back  one  thought. 

So  sigh  no  more,  my  gentle  friend, 

That  I  have  reached  the  time  of  day 
When    white   hairs    come,  and   heart 
beats  send 

No     blushes     through    the    cheeks 
astray. 

For,  could  you  mould  my  destiny 
As  clay  within  your  loving  hand, 

I  'd  leave  my  youth's  sweet  company, 
And  suffer  back  to  where  I  stand. 


PRAYER  FOR  LIGHT. 

OH  what  is  Thy  will  toward  us  mortals, 
Most  Holy  and  High  ? 


Shall  we  die  unto  life  while  we  're  liv 
ing  ?  % 
Or  die  while  we  die  ?  „ 

Can  we  serve  Thee  and  wait  on  Thee 

only 

In  cells,  dark  and  low  ? 
Must  the  altars  we  build  Thee  be  built 

with 
The  stones  of  our  woe  ? 

Shall  we   only  attain   the  great  meas 
ures 

Of  grace  and  of  bliss 
In  the  life  that  awaits  us,  by  cruelly 

Warring  on  this  ? 

Or,  may  we  still  watch  while  we  work, 
and 

Be  glad  while  we  pray  ? 
So  reverent,  we  cast  the  poor  shows  of 

Our  reverence  away ! 

Shall  the  nature  thou  gav'st  us,  pro 
nouncing  it 
Good,  and  not  ill, 

Be  warped   by  our  pride  or  our  pas 
sion 
Outside  of  Thy  will  ? 

Shall    the    sins    which    we    do    in   our 
blindness 

Thy  mercy  transcend, 
And  drag  us  down  deeper  and  deeper 

Through  worlds  without  end  ? 

Or,  are  we  stayed  back  in  sure  limits, 

And  Thou,  high  above, 
O'erruling  our  trials  for  our  triumph, 

Our  hatreds  for  love  ? 

And  is  each  soul  rising,  though  slowly, 

As  onward  it  fares, 
And  are  life's  good  things  and  its  evil 

The  steps  in  the  stairs  ? 

All  day  with  my  heart  and  my  spirit, 

In  fear  and  in  awe, 

I    strive  to  feel  out  through  my  dark 
ness 

Thy  light  and  Thy  law. 

And  this,  when  the  sun  from  his  shin 
ing 

Goes  sadly  away, 

And  the  moon  looketh  out  of  her  cham 
ber, 
Is  all  I  can  say  ; 


154 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


That  He  who  foresaw  of  transgression 

The  might  and  the  length, 
Has  fashioned  the  law  to  exceed  not 

Our  poor  human  strength  ! 


THE  UNCUT  LEAF. 

You  think  I  do  not  love  you  !  Why, 
Because  I  have  my  secret  grief? 

Because  in  reading  I  pass  by, 
Time  and  again,  the  uncut  leaf  ? 

One  rainy  night  you  read  to  me 

In  some  old  book,  I  know  not  what, 

About  the  woods  of  Eldersie, 
And  a  great  hunt  —  I  have  forgot 

What  all  the  story  was  —  ah,  well, 
It  touched  me,  and  I  felt  the  pain 

With  which  the  poor  dumb  creature  fell 
To  his  weak  knees,  then  rose  again, 

And  shuddering,  dying,  turned  about, 
Lifted  his  antlered  head  in  pride, 

And  from  his  wounded  face  shook  out 
The  bloody  arrows  ere  he  died  ! 

That  night  I  almost  dared,  I  think, 
To  cut  the  leaf,  and  let  the  sun 

Shine  in  upon  the  mouldy  ink,  — 
You  ask  me  why  it  was  not  done. 

Because  I  rather  feel  than  know 
The  truth  which  every  soul  receives 

From  kindred  souls  that  long  ago 
You   read    me    through   the   double 
leaves  ! 

So  pray  you,  leave  my  tears  to  blot 
The  record  of  my  secret  grief, 

And  though  I  know  you  know,  seem  not 
Ever  to  see  the  uncut  leaf. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  TRUTH. 

WE  are  proclaimed,  even  against  our 

wills  — 

If  we   are   silent,   then   our  silence 
speaks  — 

Children  from  tumbling  on  the  summer- 
hills 

Corne  home  with  roses  rooted  in  their 
cheeks. 

I  think  no  man  can  make  his  lie  hold 
good,  — 

One  way  or  other,  truth  is  understood. 


The   still  sweet  influence  of  a  life  of 

prayer 
Quickens  their  hearts  who  never  bow 

the  knee, — 
So  come  fresh  draughts  of  living  inland 

air 
To  weary  homesick  men,  far  out  at 

sea. 
Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  O  man,  and 

lo  ! 
His  light  shall,  like  a  garment,  round 

thee  flow. 

The  selfishness  that  with  our  lives  has 

grown, 

Though  outward  grace  its  full  expres 
sion  bar, 

Will  crop  out  here  and  there  like  belts 

of  stone 

From  shallow  soil,  discovering  what 
we  are. 

The  thing  most  specious  cannot  stead 
the  true,  — 

Who  would  appear  clean,  must  be  clean 
all  through. 

In  vain  doth  Satan  say,  "  My  heart  is 

glad, 
I    wear    of    Paradise    the    morning 

gem  ;  » 
While  on  his  brow,  magnificently  sad, 

Hangs  like  a  crag  his  blasted  diadem. 
Still  doth  the  truth  the  hollow  lie  invest, 
And  all  the  immortal  ruin  stands  con 
fessed. 


TWO   TRAVELERS. 

Two  travelers,  meeting  by  the  way, 
Arose,  and  at  the  peep  of  clay 
Brake  bread,  paid  reckoning,  and  they 
say 

Set  sut  together,  and  so  trode 
Till  where  upon  the  forking  road 
A  gray  and  good  old  man  abode. 

There  each  began  his  heart  to  strip, 
And  all  that  light  companionship 
That  cometh  of  the  eye  and  lip 

Had  sudden  end,  for  each  began 
To  ask  the  gray  and  good  old  man 
Whither  the  roads  before  them  ran. 

One,  as  they  saw,  was  shining  bright, 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


155 


With  such  a  great  and  gracious  light, 
It  seemed  that  heaven  must  be  in  sight. 

"  This,"  said  the  old  man,  "  doth  begin 
Full  sweetly,  but  its  end  is  in 
The  dark  and  desert-place  of  sin. 

"  And  this,  that  seemeth  all  to  lie 
In  gloomy  shadow,  —  by-and-by, 
Maketh  the  gateway  of  the  sky. 

"  Bide  ye  a  little  ;  fast  and  pray, 
And  'twixt  the  good  and  evil  way, 
Choose  ye,  my  brethren,  this  day." 

And  as  the  day  was  at  the  close 
The  two  wayfaring  men  arose, 
And  each  the  road  that  pleased  him 
chose. 

One  took  the  pathway  that  began 
So  brightly,  and  so  smoothly  ran 
Through  flowery  fields, —  deluded  man  ! 

Ere  long  he  saw,  alas  !  alas  ! 
All  darkly,  and  as  through  a  glass, 
Flames,    and    not   flowers,    along    the 
grass. 

Then  shadows  round  about  him  fell, 
And  in  his  soul  he  knew  full  well 
His  feet  were  taking  hold  on  hell. 

He  tried  all  vainly  to  retrace 

His    pathway ;    horrors     blocked    the 

place, 
And  demons  mocked  him  to  his  face. 

Broken  in  spirit,  crushed  in  pride, 
One  morning  by  the  highway-side 
He  fell,  and  all  unfriended,  died. 

The  other,  after  fast  and  prayer, 
Pursued  the  road  that  seemed  less  fair, 
And  peace  went  with  him,  unaware. 

And  when  the  old  man  saw  where  lay 
The  traveler's  choice,  he  said,  "  I  pray, 
Take  this  to  help  you  on  the  way  ;  " 

And  gave  to  him  a  lovely  book, 
Wherein  for  guidance  he  must  look, 
He  told  him,  if  the  path  should  crook. 

And  so,  through  labyrinths  of  shade, 
When   terror    pressed,    or   doubt   dis 
mayed, 
He  walked  in  armor  all  arrayed. 


So,  over  pitfalls  traveled  he, 
And  passed  the  gates  of  harlotry, 
Safe  with  his  heavenly  company. 

And  when  the  road  did  low  descend, 
He  found  a  good  inn,  and  a  friend, 
And  made  a  comfortable  end. 


THE  BLIND  TRAVELER.  . 

A  POOR  blind  man  was  traveling   one 

day, 
The  guiding  staff  from  out  his  hand 

was  gone, 
And  the  road  crooked,  so  he  lost  his 

way, 

And  the  night  fell,  and  a  great  storm 
came  on. 

He  was   not,  therefore,  troubled   and 

afraid, 
Nor  did  he  vex  the  silence  with  his 

cries, 
But  on  the  rainy  grass    his   cheek  he 

laid, 

And  waited  for  the  morning  sun   to 
rise. 

Saying  to   his    heart,  —  Be   still,    my 

heart,  and  wait, 

For  if  a  good  man  happen  to  go  by, 
He  will  not  leave  us  to  our  dark  estate 
And  the  cold  cover  of  the  storm,  to 
die; 

But  he  will  sweetly  take  us  by  the  hand, 
And  lead  us  back  into  the  straight 

highway  ; 

Full  soon  the  clouds  will  have  evan 
ished,  and 

All  the  wide  east  be  blazoned  with 
the  day. 

And  we  are  like  that  blind  man,  all  of 

us,— 
Benighted,  lost !  But  while  the  storm 

doth  fall 
Shall  we  not  stay  our   sinking  hearts 

up,  thus,  — 

Above  us  there  is  One  who  sees  it 
all; 

And  if  His  name  be  Love,  as  we  are 

told, 

He  will  not  leave  us  to  unequal  strife  ; 

But  to  that  city  with  the  streets  of  gold 

Bring  us,  and  give  us  everlasting  life. 


i56 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


MY  GOOD  ANGEL. 

VERY  simple  are  my  pleasures,  — 
O  good  angel,  stay  with  me, 
While  I  number  what  they  be,  — 

Easy  't  is  to  count  my  treasures. 

Easy  't  is,  —  they  are  not  many  : 
Friends  for  love  and  company, 

0  good  angel  grant  to  me  ; 
Strength  to  work  ;  and  is  there  any 

Man  or  woman,  evil  seeing 
In  my  daily  walk  and  way, 
Grant,  and  give  me  grace  to  pray 

For  a  less  imperfect  being. 

Grant  a  larger  light,  and  better, 
To  inform  my  foe  and  me, 
So  we  quickly  shall  agree  ; 

Grant  forgiveness  to  my  debtor. 

Make  my  heart,  I  pray,  of  kindness 
Always  full,  as  clouds  of  showers  ; 
Keep  my  mortal  eyes  from  blindness 

1  would  see  the  sun  and  flowers. 

From  temptation  pray  deliver  ; 

And,  good  angel,  grant  to  me 
That  my  heart  be  grateful  ever  : 

Herein  all  my  askings  be. 


CARE. 

CARE  is  like  a  husbandman 
Who  doth  guard  our  treasures  : 

And  the  while,  all  ways  he  can, 
Spoils  our  harmless  pleasures. 

Loving  hearts  and  laughing  brows, 
Most  he  seeks  to  plunder, 

And  each  furrow  that  he  ploughs 
Turns  the  roses  under. 


MORE  LIFE. 

WHEN  spring-time  prospers  in  the 
grass, 

And  fills  the  vales  with  tender  bloom, 
And  light  winds  whisper  as  they  pass 

Of  sunnier  days  to  come  : 

In  spite  of  all  the  joy  she  brings 

To  flood  and  field,  to  hill  and  grove, 


This  is  the  song  my  spirit  sings,  — 
More  light,  more  life,  more  love  ! 

And  when,  her  time  fulfilled,  she  goes 
So  gently  from  her  vernal  place, 

And  meadow  wide  and  woodland  glows 
With  sober  summer  grace  : 

When  on  the  stalk  the  ear  is  set, 
With  all  the  harvest  promise  bright, 

My  spirit  sings  the  old  song  yet,  — 
More  love,  more  life,  more  light. 

When  stubble  takes  the  place  of  grain, 
And    shrunken    streams    steal   slow 
along, 

And  all  the  faded  woods  complain 
Like  one  who  suffers  wrong ; 

When  fires  are  lit,  and  everywhere 
The  pleasures  of  the  household  rife, 

My  song  is  solemnized  to  prayer,— 
More  love,  more  light,  more  life  ! 


CONTRADICTORY. 

WE  contradictory  creatures 
Have   something   in   us   alien    to    our 

birth, 

That  doth  suffuse  us  with  the  infinite, 
While  downward   through   our   nat 
ures 
Run  adverse  thoughts,  that   only  find 

delight 

In    the    poor  perishable   things    of 
earth. 

Blindly  we  feel  about 
Our  little  circle,  —  ever  on  the  quest 
Of  knowledge,   which   is    only,   at  the 

best, 

Pushing  the  boundaries  of  our  ignor 
ance  out. 

But  while  we  know  all  things  are  mira 
cles, 

And  that  we  cannot  set 
An  ear  of  corn,  nor  tell  a  blade  of  grass 
The  way  to  grow,  our  vanity  o'erswells 
The  limit  of  our  wisdom,  and  we  yet 
Audaciously  o'erpass 
This  narrow  promontory 
Of   low,    dark   land,    into   the    unseen 

glory, 

And  with  unhallowed  zeal 
Unto  our  fellow-men  God's  judgments 
deal. 


POEMS   OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


157 


Sometimes  along  the  gloom 
We   meet  a   traveler,    striking    hands 

with  whom, 
Maketh  a  little  sweet  and  tender  light 

To  bless  our  sight, 
And  change  the  clouds  around  us  and 

above 

Into   celestial    shapes,  —  and    this    is 
love. 

Morn  cometh,  trailing  storms, 
Even    while    she    wakes   a  thousand 
grateful  psalms 

And  with  her  golden  calms 

All  the  wide  valley  fills  ; 

Darkly  they  lie  below 

The  purple  fire,  —  the  glow, 
Where,  on  the  high  tops  of  the  eastern 
hills, 

She  rests  her  cloudy  arms. 

And    we     are     like     the    morning,  — 

heavenly  light 
Blowing  about  our  heads,  and  th'  dumb 

night 
Before   us   and  behind  us  ;  ceaseless 

ills 
Make   up  our  years  ;  and  as  from  off 

the  hills 
The  white  mists  melt,  and  leave  them 

bare  and  rough, 
So  melt  from  us   the  fancies   of  our 

youth 
Until  we  stand  against  the  last  black 

truth 
Naked  and  cold,  and  desolate  enough. 


THIS   IS   ALL. 

TRYING,  trying  —  always  trying  — 
Falling  down  to  save  a  fall ; 

Living  by  the  dint  of  dying,  — 
This  is  all ! 

Giving,  giving —  always  giving  — 
Gathering  just  abroad  to  cast ; 

Dying  by  the  dint  of  living 
At  the  last ! 

Sighing,  smiling  —  smiling,  sighing 
Sun  in  shade,  and  shade  in  sun  ; 

Dying,  living —  living,  dying  — 
Both  in  one  ! 

Hoping  in  our  very  fearing, 

Striving  hard  against  our  strife  ; 


Drifting  in  the  stead  of  steering,  — 
This  is  life  ! 

Seeming  to  believe  in  seeming, 
Half  disproving,  to  approve  ; 

Knowing    that  we   dream,   in   dream 
ing,  — 
This  is  love  ! 

Being  in  our  weakness  stronger,  — 
Living  where  there  is  no  breath  ; 

Feeling  harm  can  harm  no  longer,  — 
This  is  death. 


IN   VAIN. 

DOWN  the  peach-tree  slid 

The  milk-white  drops  of  th'  dew, 

All  in  that  merry  time  of  th'  year 
When  the  world  is  made  anew. 

The  daisy  dressed  in  white, 
The  paw-paw  flower  in  brown, 

And   th'  violet  sat  by  her  lover,  th' 

brook, 
With  her  golden  eyelids  down. 

Gayly  its  own  best  hue 

Shone  in  each  leaf  and  stem,  — 
Gayly  the  children  rolled  on  th'  grass, 

With  their  shadows  after  them. 

I  said,  Be  sweet  for  me, 

0  little  wild  flowers  !  for  I 

Have  larger  need,  and  shut  in  myself, 

1  wither  and  waste  and  die  ! 

Pity  me,  sing  for  me  ! 

I  cried  to  the  tuneful  bird  ; 
My  heart  is  full  of  th'  spirit  of  song, 

And  I  cannot  sing  a  word  ! 

Like  a  buried  stream  that  longs 
Through  th'  upper  world  to  run, 

And  kiss  the  dawn  in  her  rosy  mouth, 
And  lie  in  th'  light  of  th'  sun  ; 

So  in  me,  is  my  soul, 

Wasting  in  darkness  the  hours, 
Ever  fretted  and  sullen  and  sad 

With  a  sense  of  its  unused  powers. 

In  vain  !  each  little  flower 

Must  be  sweet  for  itself,  nor  part 

With   its   white  or  brown,  and   every 

bird 
Must  sing  from  its  own  full  heart. 


158 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


BEST,  TO  THE  BEST. 


THE  wind  blows  where  it  listeth, 

Out  of  the  east  and  west, 
And  the   sinner's    way  is  as  dark   as 
death, 

And  life  is  best,  to  the  best. 

The  touch  of  evil  corrupteth  ; 

Tarry  not  on  its  track  ; 
The  grass  where  the  serpent  crawls  is 
stirred 

As  if  it  grew  on  his  back. 

To  know  the  beauty  of  cleanness 
The  heart  must  be  clean  and  sweet ; 

We  must  love  our  neighbor  to  get  his 

his  love,  — 
As  we  measure,  he  will  mete. 

Cold  black  crusts  to  the  beggar, 
1    A  cloak  of  rags  and  woe  ; 
^.nd  the  furrows  are  warm  to  the  sow 
er's  feet, 
And  his  bread  is  white  as  snow. 

Can  blind  eyes  see  the  even, 

As  he  hangs  on  th'  days'  soft  close, 

Like    a    lusty    boy    on    his    mother's 

neck, 
Bright  in  the  face  as  a  rose  ? 

The  grave  is  cold  and  cruel, — 
Rest,  pregnant  with  unrest ; 

And  woman  must  moan  and  man  must 

groan  ; 
But  life  is  best,  to  the  best. 


THORNS. 

I   DO   not  think    the    Providence   un 
kind 
That  gives  its  bad  things  to  this  life 

of  ours  ; 

They  are  the  thorns  whereby  we,  travel 
ers  blind, 
Feel  out  our  flowers. 

I    think    hate    shows    the    quality    of 

love,  — 
That  wrong  attests  that  somewhere 

there  is  right  : 
Do  not  the  darkest  shadows  serve  to 

prove 
The  power  of  light  ? 


On  tyrannous  ways  the  feet  of  Freedom 

press  ; 
The   green    bough    broken  off,  lets 

sunshine  in  ; 

And  where  sin  is,  aboundeth  righteous 
ness, 
Much  more  than  sin. 

Man   cannot   be   all  selfish  ;    separate 

good 

Is  nowhere  found  beneath  the  shin 
ing  sun  : 

All  adverse  interests,  truly  understood, 
Resolve  to  one  ! 

I  do  believe  all  worship  doth  ascend,  — 
Whether  from  temple  floors  by  hea 
then  trod, 
Or  from   the  shrines  where  Christian 

praises  blend,  — 
To  the  true  God, 

Blessed  forever  :    that   His  love  pre 
pares 
The  raven's  food  ;  the  sparrow's  fall 

doth  see  ; 

And,  simple,  sinful  as  I  am,  He  cares 
Even  for  me. 


OLD   ADAM. 

THE  wind  is   blowing   cold   from   the 
west, 

And  your  hair  is  gray  and  thin  ; 
Come    in,    old    Adam,  and    shut    the 
door,  — 

Come  in,  old  Adam,  come  in  ! 
"  The  wind  is  blowing  out  o'  the  west, 

Cold,  cold,  and  my  hair  is  thin  ; 
But  it  is  not  there,  that  face  so  fair, 

And  why  should  I  go  in  ?  " 

The   wind   is   blowing  cold  from   the 
west ; 

The  day  is  almost  gone  ; 
The  cock'is  abed,  the  cattle  fed, 

And  the  night  is  coming  on  ! 
Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  shut  the  door, 

And  leave  without  your  care. 
"  Nay,  nay,  for  the   sun  of  my  life  is 
down, 

And  the  night  is  everywhere." 

The  cricket  chirps,  and  your  chair  is 

set 

Where    the   fire   shines   warm    and 
clear : 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


159 


Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  you  will  for 
get 

It  is  not  the  spring  o'  the  year. 
Come   in  !    the   wind  blows  wild  from 

the  west, 

And  your  hair  is  gray  and  thin. 
"  'T  is  not  there  now,  that  sweet,  sweet 

brow, 
And  why  should  I  go  in  ? " 


SOMETIMES. 

SOMETIMES  for  days 
Along  the  fields  that  I    of  time  have 

leased, 
I  go.  nor  find  a  single  leaf  increased  ; 

And  hopeless,  graze 
With  forehead  stooping  downward  like 
a  beast. 

0  heavy  hours  ! 

My  life  seems  all  a  failure,  and  I  sigh, 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do,  but 

die? 

So  small  my  powers 
That  I  can  only  stretch  them  to  a  cry  ! 

But  while  I  stretch 
What  strength  I  have,  though  only  to 

a  cry, 
I  gain  an  utterance  that  men  know  me 

by; 

Create,  and  fetch 
A  something  out  of  chaos,  —  that  is  I. 

Good  comes  to  pass 
We  know  not  when  nor  how,  for,  look 
ing  to 
What   seemed   a  barren   waste,   there 

starts  to  view 
Some  bunch  of  grass, 
Or  snarl  of  violets,  shining  with   the 
dew. 

1  do  believe 

The  very  impotence  to  pray,  is  prayer  ; 
The  hope  that  all  will  end,  is  in  de 
spair, 

And  while  we  grieve, 
Comfort  abideth  with  us,  unaware. 


Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful, 
So  cares  must  needs  abound  ; 

The  vine  that  bears  too  many  flowers 
Will  trail  upon  the  ground. 


THE  SEA-SIDE  CAVE. 

"  A  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  the  voice,  and  that 
which  hath  wings  tell  the  matter." 

AT  the  dead  of  night  by  the  side  of 

the  Sea 

I  met  my  gray-haired  enemy,  — 
The  glittering  light  of  his  serpent  eye 
Was  all  I  had  to  see  him  by. 

At   the    dead    of    night,    and    stormy 

weather 

We  went  into  a  cave  together,  — 
Into  a  cave  by  the  side  of  the  Sea, 
And  —  he  never  came  out  with  me  ! 

The  flower  that  up  through  the  April 

mould 

Comes  like  a  miser  dragging  his  gold, 
Never  made  spot  of  earth  so  bright 
As   was  the  ground  in  the  cave  that 

night. 

Dead  of  night,  and  stormy  weather  ! 
Who  should  see  us  going  together 
Under  the  black  and  dripping  stone 
Of    the    cave    from   whence    I    came 
alone  ! 

Next  day  as  my  boy  sat  on  my  knee 
He   picked   the   gray    hairs   off    from 

me, 

And  told  with  eyes  brimful  of  fear 
How  a  bird  in  the  meadow  near 

Over  her  clay-built  nest  had  spread 
Sticks  and  leaves  all  bloody  red, 
Brought  from  a  cave  by  the  side  of  the 

Sea 
Where  some  murdered  man  must  be. 


THE   MEASURE   OF  TIME. 

A  BREATH,  like  the  wind's  breath,  may 
carry 

A  name  far  and  wide, 
But  the  measure  of  time  does  not  tally 

With  any  man's  pride. 

'Tis  not  a  wild  chorus  of  praises, 
Nor  chance,  nor  yet  fate,  — 

'T  is  the  greatness  born  with  him,  and 

in  him, 
That  makes  the  man  great. 


i6o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  when  in  the  calm  self-possession 

That  birthright  confers, 
The  man  is  stretched  out  to  her  meas 
ure, 

Fame  claims  him  for  hers. 

Too  proud  too  fall  back  on  achieve 
ment, 

With  work  in  his  sight, 
His  triumph  may  not  overtake  him 

This  side  of  the  night. 

And  men,  with  his  honors  about  them, 
His  grave-mound  may  pass, 

Nor  dream  what  a  great  heart  lies  under 
Its  short  knotty  grass. 

But  though  he  has  lived  thus  unpros- 
pered, 

And  died  thus,  alone, 
His  face  may  not  always  be  hid  by 

A  hand-breadth  of  stone. 

The  long  years  are  wiser  than  any 

Wise  day  of  them  all, 
And  the  hero  at  last  shall   stand  up 
right,  — 

The  base  image  fall. 

The  counterfeit  may  for  a  season 

Deceive  the  wide  earth, 
But   the   lie,  waxing  great,  comes   to 
labor. 

And  truth  has  its  birth. 


IDLE   FEARS. 

IN  my  lost  childhood  old  folks  said  to 

me, 
"  Now  is  the  time  and  season  of  your 

bliss  ; 

All  joy  is  in  the  hope  of  joy  to  be, 
Not  in  possession  ;  and  in  after  years 
You  will  look  back  with  longing  sighs 

and  tears 
To  the  young  days  when  you  from  care 

were  free." 
It  was   not   true  ;    they  nurtured   idle 

fears  ; 
I  never  saw  so  good  a  day  as  this  ! 

And  youth  and  I  have  parted  :  long  ago 
I  looked  into  my  glass,  and  saw  one 

day 

A  little  silver  line  that  told  me  so  : 
At  first  I  shut  my  eyes  and  cried,  and 

then 


I  hid  it  under  girlish  flowers,  but  when 
Persuasion  would  not  make  my  mate  to 

stay, 
I    bowed    my   faded    head,   and   said, 

"  Amen  !  " 
And  all  my  peace  is  since  she  went 

away. 

My  window  opens  toward  the  autumn 

woods  ; 

I  see  the  ghosts  of  thistles  walk  the  air 
O'er  the  long,  level  stubble-land  that 

broods  ; 
Beneath  the  herbless  rocks  that  jutting 

lie, 

Summer  has  gathered  her  white  family 
Of  shrinking  daisies  ;  all  the  hills  are 

bare, 

And  in  the  meadows  not  a  limb  of  buds 
Through  the    brown   bushes    showeth 

anywhere. 

Dear,  beauteous  season,  we  must  say 
good-bye, 

And  can  afford  to,  we  have  been  so 
blest, 

And  farewells  suit  the  time  ;  the  year 
doth  lie 

With  cloudy  skirts  composed,  and  pal 
lid  face 

Hid  under  yellow  leaves,  with  touching 
grace, 

So  that  her  bright-haired  sweetheart  of 
the  sky 

The  image  of  her  prime  may  not  dis 
place. 


Do  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil  — 
You  will  find  them  if  you  do  ; 

As  you  measure  for  your  neighbor 
He  will  measure  back  to  you. 

Look  for  goodness,  look  for  gladness, 
You  will  meet  them  all  the  while  ; 

If  you  bring  a  smiling  visage 
To  the  glass,  you  meet  a  smile. 


OUR     unwise     purposes     are     wisely 

crossed  ; 
Being  small  ourselves,  we  must  essay 

small  things  : 
Th'   adventurous    mote,  with  wide, 

outwearied  wings 
Crawling  across  a  water-drop,  is  lost. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


161 


HINTS. 

Two  thirsty  travelers  chanced  one  day 

to  meet 
Where  a  spring  bubbled  from  the 

burning  sand  ; 
One  drank  out  of  the   hollow  of  his 

hand, 

And   found   the  water  very  cool   and 
sweet. 

The  other  waited  for  a  smith  to  beat 

And  fashion  for  his  use  a  golden  cup  ; 
And  while   he  waited,  fainting  in  the 

heat, 

The  sunshine  came  and  drank  the 
fountain  up  ! 

In  a  green  field  two  little  flowers  there 

were, 
And  both  were  fair  in  th'  face  and 

tender-eyed  ; 
One   took   the   light   and   dew  that 

heaven  supplied, 

And  all  the  summer  gusts  were  sweet 
with  her. 

The  other,  to  her  nature  false,  denied 
That  she  had  any  need  of  sun  and 

dew, 
And  hung  her  silly  head,  and  sickly 

grew, 
And  frayed  and  faded,  all  untimely  died. 

A  vine  o'  th'  bean,  that  had  been  early 

wed 
To  a  tall  peach,  conceiving  that  he 

hid 
Her  glories  from  the  world,  unwisely 

slid 

<Jut  of  his    arms,  and  vainly  chafing, 
said  : 

"  This  fellow  is  an  enemy  of  mine, 
And  dwarfs  me  with  his  shade  :  "  she 

would  not  see 
That  she  was  made  a  vine,  and  not  a 

tree, 
And  that  a  tree  is  stronger  than  a  vine. 


TO  A   S1A6NANT   RIVER. 

O  RIVER,  why  lie  with  your  beautiful 

face 
To  the  hill  ?     Can  you  move  him  away 

from  his  place  ? 
ii 


You  may  moanf  —  you  may  clasp  him 
with  soft  arms  forever,  — 

He  will  still  be  a  flinty  hill,  — you  be  a 
river. 

'Tis  willful,  'tis  wicked  to  waste  in  de 
spair 

The  treasure  so  many  are  dying  to 
share, 

The  gifts  that  we  have,  Heaven  lends 
for  right  using, 

And  not  for  ignoring,  and  not  for  abus 
ing. 

Let  the   moss  have  his  love,  and   the 

grass  and  the  dew,  — 
By  God's  law  he  cannot  be  mated  with 

you. 
His  friend  is  the  stubble,  his  life  is  the 

dust, 
You   are    not   what   you  would,  —  you 

must  be  what  you  must. 

If  into  his  keeping  your  fortune  you 

cast, 
I    tell  you   the  end  will  be  hatred  at 

last, 
Or  death  through  stagnation  ;  your  rest 

is  in  motion  ; 
The  aim  of  your  being,  the  cloud  and 

the  ocean. 

Love  cannot  be  love,  with  itself  set  at 

strife  ; 
To  sin  against  Nature  is  death  and  not 

life. 
You  may  freeze  in  the  shadow  or  seethe 

in  the  sun, 
But  the  oil  and  the  water  will  not  be  at 

one. 

Your  pride  and  your  peace,  when  this 

passion  is  crossed, 
Will  pay  for  the  struggle  whatever  it 

cost  ; 
But  though  earth  dissolve,  though  the 

heavens  should  fall, 
To  yourself,  your  Creator,  be  true  first 

of  all. 


APART  from  the  woes   that  are  dead 
and  gone, 

And  the  shadow  of  future  care, 
The  heaviest  yoke  of  the  present  hour 

Is  easy  enough  to  bear. 


1 62 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE    GARY. 


COUNSEL. 

SEEK  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light, 

But  keep  unto  thine  own  : 
Do  what  thou  doest  with  thy  might, 

And  trust  thyself  alone  ! 

Work  for  some  good,  nor  idly  lie 

Within  the  human  hive  ; 
And  though  the  outward  man  should 
die, 

Keep  thou  the  heart  alive  ! 

Strive  not  to  banish  pain  and  doubt, 

In  pleasure's  noisy  din  ; 
The  peace  thou  seekest  for  without 

Is  only  found  within. 

If  fortune  disregard  thy  claim, 
By  worth,  her  slight  attest ; 

Nor  blush  and  hang  the  head  for  shame 
When  thou  hast  done  thy  best. 

What  thy  experience  teaches  true, 

Be  vigilant  to  heed  ; 
The  wisdom  that  we  suffer  to, 

Is  wiser  than  a  creed. 

Disdain  neglect,  ignore  despair, 
On  loves  and  friendships  gone 

Plant  thou  thy  feet,  as  on  a  stair, 
And  mount  right  up  and  on  ! 


LATENT  LIFE. 

THOUGH  never  shown  by  word  or  deed, 
Within  us  lies  some  germ  of  power, 

As  lies  unguessed,  within  the  seed, 
The  latent  flower. 

And  under  every  common  sense 
That  doth  its  daily  use  fulfill, 

There  lies  another,  more  intense, 
And  beauteous  still. 

This  dusty  house,  wherein  is  shrined 
The  soul,  is  but  the  counterfeit 

Of  that  which  shall  be,  more  refined, 
And  exquisite. 

The  light  which  to  our  sight  belongs, 
Enfolds  a  light  more  broad  and  clear  ; 

Music  but  intimates  the  songs 
We  do  not  hear. 


The  fond  embrace,  the  tender  kiss 
Which  love  to  its  expression  brings, 

Are  but  the  husk  the  chrysalis 
Wears  on  its  wings. 

The  vigor  falling  to  decay, 

Hopes,  impulses  that  fade  and  die, 
Are  but  the  layers  peeled  away 

From  life  more  high. 

When  death  shall  come  and  disallow 
These    rough    and    ugly    masks    we 
wear, 

I  think,  that  we  shall  be  as  now, — 
Only  more  fair. 

And  He  who  makes  his  love  to  be 
Always  around  me,  sure  and  calm, 

Sees  what  is  possible  to  me, 
Not  what  I  am. 


HOW  AND  WHERE. 

How  are  we  living? 
Like  herbs  in  a  garden  that  stand  in  a 

row, 
And  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand 

there  and  grow  ? 
Our  powers  of  perceiving 
So  dull  and  so  dead, 
They   simply   extend    to    the    objects 

about  us,  — 
The  moth,  having  all  his  dark  pleasure 

without  us,  — 
The  worm  in  his  bed  ! 

If  thus  we  are  living, 
And   fading   and   falling,   and  rotting, 

alas  !  — 
Like  the  grass,  or  the  flowers  that  grow 

in  the  grass,  — 
Is  life  worth  our  having  ? 
The  insect  a-humming  — 
The  wild  bird  is  better,  that  sings  as 

it  flies,— 
The  ox,  that  turns  up  his  great  face  Lo 

the  skies, 
When  the  thunder  is  coming. 

Where  are  we  living  ? 
In  passion,  and  pain,  and  remorse  do 

we  dwell,  — 
Creating,  yet  terribly  hating,  our  hell  ? 

No  triumph  achieving  ? 

No  grossness  refining  ? 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


I63 


The  wild  tree  does  more  ;  for  his  coat 

of  rough  barks 
He    trims    with    green    mosses,    and 

checks  with  the  marks 
Of  the  long  summer  shining. 

We  're  dying,  not  living  : 
Our  senses   shut  up,   and   our   hearts 

faint  and  cold  ; 
Upholding  old  things  just  because  they 

are  old  ; 

Our  good  spirits  grieving, 
We  suffer  our  springs 
Of  promise  to  pass  without  sowing  the 

land, 

And  hungry  and  sad  in  the  harvest- 
time  stand, 
Expecting  good  things  ! 


THE   FELLED   TREE. 

THEY  set  me  up,  and  bade  me  stand 

Beside  a  dark,  dark  sea, 
In  the  befogged,  low-lying  land 

Of  this  mortality. 

I    slipped    my  roots    round   the    stony 

soil 

Like  rings  on  the  hand  of  a  bride, 
And  my  boughs  took  hold  of  the  sum 
mer's  smile 
And  grew  out  green  and  wide. 

Crooked-,  and  shaggy  on  all  sides, 

I  was  homeliest  of  trees, 
But   the  cattle  rubbed  their  speckled 
hides 

Against  my  knotty  knees  ; 

And  lambs,  in  white  rows  on  the  grass, 
Lay  down  within  my  shade  ; 

So  I  knew,  all  homely  as  I  was, 
P^or  a  good  use  I  was  made. 

And  my  contentment  served  me  well ; 

My  heart  grew  strong  and  sweet, 
And  my  shaggy  bark  cracked  off  and 
fell 


In  layers  at  my  feet. 


I  felt  when  the  darkest  storm  was  rife 
The  day  of  its  wrath  was  brief, 

And  that  I  drew  from  the  centre  of  life 
The  life  of  my  smallest  leaf. 

At  last  a  woodman  came  one  day 
With  axe  to  a  sharp  edge  ground, 


And  hewed  at  my  heart   till   I   stood 

a-sway, 
But  I  never  felt  the  wound. 

I  knew  immortal  seed  was  sown 

Within  me  at  my  birth, 
And  I  fell  without  a  single  groan, 

With  my  green  face  to  the  earth. 

Now  all  men  pity  me,  and  must, 

Who  see  me  lie  so  low, 
But    the    Power  that   changes  me   to 
dust 

Is  the  same  that  made  me  grow. 


A   DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  a  plot  of  ground, 
Once  when  I  chanced  asleep  to  drop, 

And    that   a  green    hedge    fenced   it 

round, 
Cloudy  with  roses  at  the  top. 

I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  rise,  — 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach,  — 

And  spring  with  summer  in  her  eyes 
Making  the  chiefest  charm  of  each. 

A  thousand  vines  were  climbing  o'er 
The  hedge,  I  thought,  but  as  I  tried 

To  pull  them  down,  for  evermore 
The  flowers  dropt  off  the  other  side  ! 

Waking,  I  said,  these  things  are  signs 
Sent  to  instruct  us  that  't  is  ours 

Duly  to  keep  and  dress  our  vines,  — 
Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 

And  when  the  angel  feared  of  all 

Across  my  hearth  its  shadow  spread, 
The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Has  bloomed  the  other  side,  I  said. 


WORK. 

DOWN  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 

Over  and  over  and  over  ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Turn  out  the  bright  red  clover. 
Work,    and    the    sun    your   work   will 
share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall  ; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 


1 64 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


With  hand  on  the  spade  and  heart  in 

the  sky, 

Dress  the  ground,  and  till  it ; 
Turn    in   the   little   seed,   brown    and 

dry, 

Turn  out  the  golden  millet. 
Work,  and   your  house  shall  be  duly 

fed  ; 

Work,  and  rest  shall  be  won  ; 
I  hold  that  a  man  had  better  be  dead 
Than  alive,  when  his  work  is  done  ! 

Down  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 

On  the  hill-top,  low  in  the  valley  ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Turn  out  the  rose  and  lily. 
Work  with  a  plan,  or  without  a  plan, 

And  your  ends  they  shall  be  shaped 

true  ; 

Work,  and  learn  at  first  hand,  like  a 
man,  — 

The  best  way  to  know  is  to  do  ! 

Down  and  up  till  life  shall  close, 

Ceasing  not  your  praises  ; 
Turn  in  the  wild  white  winter  snows, 

Turn  out  the  sweet  spring  daisies. 
Work,    and    the    sun    your   work    will 
share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall  ; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 


COMFORT. 

BOATMAN,  boatman  !  my  brain  is  wild, 
As  wild  as  the  stormy  seas  ; 

My   poor  little    child,  my   sweet  little 

child, 
Is  a  corpse  upon  my  knees. 

No  holy  choir  to  sing  so  low, 
No  priest  to  kneel  in  prayer, 

No  tire-woman  to  help  me  sew 
A  cap  for  his  golden  hair. 

Dropping  his  oars  in  the  rainy  sea, 

The  pious  boatman  cried, 
Not  without  Him  who  is  life  to  thee 

Could  the  little  child  have  died  ! 

His  grace  the  same,  and  the  same  His 
power, 

Demanding  our  love  and  trust, 
Whether  He  makes  of  the  dust  a  flower, 

Or  changes  a  flower  to  dusl. 


On  the  land  and  the  water,  all  in  all, 
The  strength  to  be  still  or  pray, 

To  blight  the  leaves  in  their  time  to  fall, 
Or  light  up  the  hills  with  May. 


FAITH  AND  WORKS. 

NOT  what  we  think,  but  what  we  do, 
Makes  saints  of  us  :  all  stiff  and  cold, 

The    outlines     of    the     corpse     show 

through 
The  cloth  of  gold. 

And  in  despite  the  outward  sin, — 
Despite  belief  with  creeds  at  strife,  — 

The  principle  of  love  within 
Leavens  the  life. 

For,  't  is  for  fancied  good,  I  claim, 
That  men  do  wrong, — not  wrong's 

desire  ; 
Wrapping   themselves,   as  't  were,  in 

flame 
To  cheat  the  fire. 

Not  what   God    gives,   but  what    He 

takes, 

Uplifts  us  to  the  holiest  height ; 
On  truth's  rough  crags  life's  current 

breaks 
To  diamond  light. 

From  transient  evil  I  do  trust 
That  we  a  final  good  shall  draw ; 

That  in  confusion,  death,  and  dust 
Are  light  and  law. 

That  He  whose  glory  shines  among 
The  eternal  stars,  descends  to  mark 

This  foolish  little  atom  swung 
Loose  in  the  dark. 

But  though  I  should  not  thus  receive 
A  sense  of  order  and  control, 

My  God,  I  could  not  disbelieve 
My  sense  of  soul. 

For  though,  alas  !  I  can  but  see 
A  hand's  breadth  backward,  or  before, 
I  am,  and  since  I  am,  must  be 
For  evermore. 


THE  RUSTIC   PAINTER. 

His  sheep  went  idly  over  the  hills, 
Idly  down  and  up,  — 


POEMS   OF   THOUGHT  AND   FEELING. 


165 


As  he  sat  and  painted  his  sweetheart's 

face 
On  a  little  ivory  cup. 

All  round  him  roses  lay  in  the  grass 
That  were  hardly  out  of  buds  ; 

For  sake  of  her  mouth  and   cheek,  I 

knew 
He  had  murdered  them  in  the  woods. 

The  ant,  that  good  little  housekeeper, 

Was  not  at  work  so  hard  ; 
And  yet  the  semblance  of  a  smile 

Was  all  of  his  reward  : 

And  the  golden-belted  gentleman 

That  travels  in  the  air, 
Hummed    not  so  sweet  to  the  clover- 
buds 

As  he  to  his  picture  there. 

The  while  for  his  ivory  cup  he  made 

An  easel  of  his  knee, 
And  painted  his  little  sweetheart's  face 

Truly  and  tenderly. 

Thus  we  are  marking  on  all  our  work 
Whatever  we  have  of  grace  ; 

As  the  rustic  painted  his  ivory  cup 
With  his  little  sweetheart's  face. 


ONE  OF  MANY. 

I  KNEW  a  man  —  I  know  him  still 
In  part,  in  all  I  ever  knew,  — 

Whose  life  runs  counter  to  his  will, 
Leaving  the  things  he  fain  would  do, 

Undone.  His  hopes  are  shapes  of 
sands, 

That  cannot  with  themselves  agree  ; 
As  one  whose  eager  outstretched  hands 

Take  hold  on  water  —  so  is  he. 

Fame  is  a  bauble,  to  his  ken  ; 

Mirth  cannot  move  his  aspect  grim  ; 
The  holidays  of  other  men 

Are  only  battle-days  to  him. 

He  locks  his  heart  within  his  breast, 

Believing  life  to  such  as  he 
Is  but  a  change  of  ills,  at  best,  — 

A  crossed  and  crazy  tragedy. 

His  cheek  is  wan  ;  his  limbs  are  faint 
With  fetters  which  they  never  wore  ; 


No  wheel  that  ever  crushed  a  saint, 
But  breaks  his  body  o'er  and  o'er. 

Though  woman's  grace  he  never  sought 
By  tender  look,  or  word  of  praise, 

He  dwells  upon  her  in  his  thought, 
With  all  a  lover's  lingering  phrase. 

A  very  martyr  to  the  truth, 

All  that 's  best  in  him  is  belied  ; 

Humble,  yet  proud  withal ;  in  sooth 
His  pride  is  his  disdain  of  pride. 

He  sees  in  what  he  does  amiss 

A  continuity  of  ill  ; 
The  next  life  dropping  out  of  this, 

Stained  with  its  many  colors  still. 

His  kindliest  pity  is  for  those 

Who  are  the  slaves  of  guilty  lusts  ; 

And  virtue,  shining  till  it  shows 
Another's  frailty,  he  distrusts. 

Nature,  he  holds,  since  time  began 
Has  been  reviled,  —  misunderstood  ; 

And  that  we  first  must  love  a  man 
To  judge  him,  —  be  he  bad  or  good. 

Often  his  path  is  crook'd  and  low. 

And  is  so  in  his  own  despite  ; 
For  still  the  path  he  meant  to  go 

Runs    straight,  and   level   with   the 

right. 
No  heart  has  he  to  strive  with  fate 

For  less  things  than  our  great  men 

gone 
Achieved,  who,  with  their  single  weight, 

Turned  Time's  slow  wheels  a  century 


His  waiting  silence  is  his  prayer  ; 

His  darkness  is  his  plea  for  light ; 
And  loving  all  men  everywhere 

He  lives,  a  more  than  anchorite. 

O  friends,  if  you  this  man  should 
see, 

Be  not  your  scorn  too  hardly  hurled, 
Believe  me,  whatsoe'er  he  be, 

There  be  more  like  him  in  the  world. 


THE   SHADOW. 

ONE  summer  night, 
The   full   moon,  'tired   in    her   golden 
cloak, 


1 66 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Did    beckon    me,  I  thought  ;    and    I 

awoke, 
And  saw  a  light, 

Most  soft  and  fair, 

Shine  in  the  brook,  as  if,  in  love's  dis 
tress, 
The  parting  sun  had  shear'd  a  dazzling 

tress. 
And  left  it  there. 

Toward  the  sweet  banks 

Of  the  bright  stream  straightly  I  bent 

my  way  ; 
And   in   my  heart   good  thoughts   the 

while  did  stay, 
Giving  God  thanks. 

The  wheat-stocks  stood 
Along  the  field  like  little  fairy  men, 
And   mists   stole,   white   and   bashful, 
through  the  glen, 

As  maidens  would. 

In  rich  content 
My  soul  was  growing  toward  immortal 

height, 
When,  lo  !  I  saw  that  by  me,  through 

the  light, 
A  shadow  went. 

I  stopped,  afraid : 
It   was   the    bad   sign    of   some    evil 

done  : 
That  stopping,  too,  right  swiftly  did  I 

run  ; 
So  did  the  shade. 

At  length  I  drew 
Close   to   the   bank  of   the   delightful 

brook, 
And  sitting  in  the  moonshine,  turn'd 

to  look  ; 
It  sat  there  too. 

Ere  long  I  spied 
A  weed  with  goodly  flowers  upon  its 

top; 
And  when  I  saw  that  such  sweet  things 

did  drop 
Black  shadows,  cried,  — 

Lo  !   I  have  found, 
Hid  in  this  ugly  riddle,  a  good  sign  ; 
My    life    is    twofold,    earthly   and    di 
vine,  — 

Buried  and  crown'd. 


Sown  darkly  ;  raised 
Light  within    light,   when   death  from 

mortal  soil 

Undresses  me,  and    makes  me  spirit 
ual  ;  — 
Dear  Lord,  be  praised. 


THE  UNWISE   CHOICE. 

Two  young  men,  when  I  was  poor, 
Came  and  stood  at  my  open  door  ; 

One  said  to  me,  "  I  have  gold  to  give  ;  " 
And  one,  "  I  will  love  you  while  I  live  !  " 

My  sight  was  dazzled  ;  woe  's  the  day  ! 
And  I  sent  the  poor  young  man  away  ; 

Sent  him  away,  I  know  not  where, 
And  my  heart  went  with  him,  unaware. 

He  did  not  give  me  any  sighs, 
But  he  left  his  picture  in  my  eyes  ; 

And  in  my  eyes  it  has  always  been  : 
I  have  no  heart  to  keep  it  in  ! 

Beside  the  lane  with  hedges  sweet, 
Where  we  parted,  never  more  to  meet, 

He  pulled  a  flower  of  love's  own  hue, 
And  where  it  had  been  came  out  two  ! 

And  in  th'  grass  where  he  stood,  for 

years, 
The  dews  of  th'  morning  looked  like 

tears. 

Still  smiles  the  house  where  I  was  born 
Among  its  fields  of  wheat  and  corn. 

Wheat  and  corn  that  strangers  bind,  — 
I  reap  as  I  sowed,  and  I  sowed  to  th' 
wind. 

As  one  who  feels  the  truth  break 
through 

His  dream,  and  knows  his  dream  un 
true, 

I  live  where  splendors  shine,  and  sigh, 
For   the   peace    that   splendor   cannot 

buy  ; 

Sigh  for  the  day  I  was  rich  tho'  poor, 
And  saw  th'  two  young  men  at  my  door  ! 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AA'D  FEELING. 


I67 


PROVIDENCE. 

"  From  seeming  evil,  still  educing  good." 

THE  stone  upon  the  wayside  seed  that 

tell, 
And  kept  the  spring   rain   from  it, 

kept  it  too 
From  the  bird's   mouth  ;    and  in    that 

silent  cell 
It  quickened,  after  many  days,  and 

grew, 

Till,  by-and-by,  a  rose,  a  single  one, 
Lifted  its  little  face  into  the  sun. 

It  chanced  a  wicked  man  approached 

one  day, 
And  saw  the  tender  piteous  look  it 

wore  : 
Perhaps   one    like    it    somewhere   far 

away 
Grew   in  a  garden-bed,   or  by   the 

door 
That   he  in  childish  days  had  played 

around, 
For  his   knees,  trembling,  sunk   upon 

the  ground. 

Then,    o'er    this    piece     of    bleeding 

earth,  the  tears 
Of    penitence    were    wrung,    until    at 

last 
The  golden   key  of   love,  that  sin  for 

years 

In  his  unquiet  soul  had  rusted  fast, 
Was  loosened,  and  his  heart,  that  very 

hour. 
Opened  to  God's  good  sunshine,  like  a 

flower. 


THE  LIVING  PRESENT. 

FRIENDS,  let  us  slight  no  pleasant 
spring 

That  bubbles  up  in  life's  dry  sands, 
And  yet  be  careful  what  good  thing 

We  touch  with  sacrilegious  hands. 

Our  blessings   should   be  sought,  not 

claimed,  — 
Cherished,  not  watched  with  jealous 

eye  ;  - 

Love  is  too  precious  to  be  named, 
Save  with    a    reverence    deep    and 
high. 


In  all  that  lives,  exists  the  power 
To  avenge  the  invasion  of  its  right ; 

We  cannot  bruise  and  break  our  flower, 
And    have    our     flower,    alive    and 
bright. 

Let  us  think  less  of  what  appears,  — 
More  of  what  is  ;  for  this,  hold  I, 

It  is  the  sentence  no  man  hears 
That  makes  us  live,  or  makes  us  die. 

Trust    hearsay    less ;     seek    more    to 

prove 
And   know    if  things    be  what   they 

seem  ; 

Not  sink  supinely  in  some  groove, 
And  hope  and  hope,  and  dream  and 
dream. 

Some    days    must    needs    be    full   of 
gloom, 

Yet  must  we  use  them  as  we  may  ; 
Talk  less  about  the  years  to  come,  — 

Live,  love,  and  labor  more,  to-day. 

What  our  hand  findeth,  do  with  might ; 

Ask  less  for  help,  but  stand  or  fall, 
Each  one  of  us,  in  life's  great  fight, 

As  if  himself  and  God  were  all. 


THE  WEAVER'S  DREAM. 

HE  sat  all  alone  in  his  dark  little  room, 
His  fingers    aweary  with  work    at  the 

loom, 
His  eyes  seeing  not   the  fine  threads, 

for  the  tears, 
As  he   carefully  counted  the  months 

and  the  years 
He  had  been  a  poor  weaver. 

Not  a  traveler  went  on  the  dusty  high 
way, 

But  he  thought,  "  He  has    nothing  to 
do  but  be  gay  ;  " 

No  matter  how  burdened   or  bent  he 
might  be, 

The  weaver  believed  him  more  happy 

than  he, 
And  sighed  at  his  weaving. 

He  saw  not  the  roses  so  sweet  and  so 

red 
That  looked  through  his  window  ;    he 

thought  to  be  dead 
And  carried  away  from  his  dark  little 

room, 


1 68 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY, 


Wrapt  up  in  the  linen  he  had  in  his 

loom, 
Were  better  than  weaving. 

Just  then  a  white  angel  came  out  of  the 

skies, 
And  shut  up  his  senses,  and  sealed  up 

his  eyes, 
And  bore  him  away  from  the  work  at 

his  loom 
In  a  vision,  and  left  him  alone  by  the 

tomb 
Of  his  dear  little  daughter. 

"  My    darling  !  "    he    cries,    "  what   a 

blessing  was  mine  ! 
How    I    sinned,    having    you,    against 

goodness  divine  ! 
Awake  !      O    my   lost  one,  my   sweet 

one,  awake  ! 
And  I  never,  as  long  as  I  live,  for  your 

sake, 
Will  sigh  at  my  weaving  !  " 

The  sunset  was  gilding  his  low  little 
room 

When    the    weaver    awoke    from    his 
dream  at  the  loom, 

And  close  at  his  knee  saw  a  dear  little 
head 

Alight  with  long  curls,  —  she  was  liv 
ing,  not  dead,  — 
His  pride  and  his  treasure. 

He  winds  the  fine  thread  on  his  shut 
tle  anew, 

(At  thought  of  his  blessing  't  was  easy 
to  do,) 

And  sings  as  he  weaves,  for  the  joy  in 
his  breast, 

Peace  cometh  of  striving,  and  labor  is 

rest  : 
Grown  wise  was  the  weaver. 


NOT  NOW. 

THE  path  of  duty  I  clearly  trace, 
I  stand  with  conscience  face  to  face, 

And  all  her  pleas  allow  ; 
Calling     and     crying     the    while     for 

grace,  - 
"  Some   other  time,   and    some   other 

place  : 
Oh,  not  to-day  ;  not  now  !  " 

I  know  't  is  a  demon  boding  ill, 
I  know  I  have  power  to  do  if  I  wi 


And  I  put  my  hand  to  th'  plough  ; 
I  have  fair,  sweet  seeds  in  my  barn, 

and  lo  ! 
When  all  the  furrows  are  ready  to  sow, 

The  voice  says,  "  Oh,  not  now  !  " 

My  peace  I  sell  at  the  price  of  woe  ; 
In  heart  and  in  spirit  I  suffer  so, 

The  anguish  wrings  my  brow  ; 
But  still  I  linger  and  cry  for  grace,  — 
"  Some   other  time,   and   some   other 
place  : 

Oh,  not  to-day  ;  not  now  !  " 

I  talk  to  my  stubborn  heart  and  say, 
The  work  I  must  do  I  will  do  to-day  ; 

I  will  make  to  the  Lord  a  vow  : 
And  I  will  not  rest  and  I  will  not  sleep 
Till  the  vow  I  have  vowed  I  rise  and 
keep  ; 

And  the  demon  cries,  "  Not  now  !  " 

And  so  the  days  and  the  years  go  by, 
And  so  I  register  lie  upon  lie, 

And  break  with  Heaven  my  vow  ; 
For  when  I  would  boldly  take  my  stand, 
This  terrible  demon  stays  my  hand,  — 

"  Oh,  not  to-day  :  not  now  !  " 


CRAGS. 

THERE  was  a  good  and  reverend  man 
Whose  day  of  life,  serene  and  bright, 

Was  wearing  hard  upon  the  gloom 
Beyond  which  we  can  see  no  light. 

And  as  his  vision  back  to  morn, 
And  forward  to  the  evening  sped, 

He  bowed  himself  upon  his  staff, 
And  with  his  heart  communing,  said  : 

From  mystery  on  to  mystery 

My  way  has  been  ;  yet  as  I  near 

The  eternal  shore,  against  the  sky 
These  crags  of  truth  stand  sharp  and 
clear. 

Where'er  its  hidden  fountain  be, 
Time  is  a  many-colored  jet 

Of  good  and  evil,  light  and  shade, 
And  we  evoke  the  things  we  get. 

The  hues  that  our  to-morrows  wear 
Are  by  our  yesterdays  forecast  ; 
Our  future  takes  into  itself 

The  true  impression  of  our  past. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


I69 


The  attrition  of  conflicting  thoughts 
To     clear     conclusions,    wears    the 
groove  ; 

The  love  that  seems  to  die,  dies  not, 
But  is  absorbed  in  larger  love. 

We  cannot  cramp  ourselves  unharmed, 
In  bonds  of  iron,  nor  of  creeds  ; 

The  rights  that  rightfully  belong 
To  man.  are  measured  by  his  needs. 

The  daisy  is  entitled  to 

The  nurture  of  the  dew  and  light  ; 
The  green  house  of  the  grasshopper 

In  his  by  Nature's  sacred  right. 


MAN. 

IN  what  a  kingly  fashion  man  doth 
dwell : 

He  hath  but  to  prefer 

His  want,  and  Nature,  like  a  servitor, 
Maketh  him  answer  with  some  miracle. 

And  yet  his  thoughts  do   keep  along 

the  ground, 

And  neither  leap  nor  run, 
Though  capable  to  climb  above  the 

sun  ; 

He  seemeth  free,  and  yet  is  strangely 
bound. 

What  name  would  suit  his  case,  or  great 

or  small  ? 

Poor,  but  exceeding  proud  ; 
Importunate   and  still,  humble   and 

loud  ; 

Most  wise,  and  yet  most  ignorant, 
withal. 

The  world  that  lieth  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  a  great  emerald, 
Knowefh    the    law   by  which  she  is 

upheld, 

And  in  her  motions  keepeth  steady 
there. 

But  in  his  foolishness  proud  man  defies 
The  law,  wherewith  is  bound 
The  peace  he  seeks,  and  fluttering 

moth-like  round 

Some  dangerous  light,  experimenting, 
dies. 

And  all  his  subtle  reasoning  can  obtain 
To  tell  his  fortune  by, 


Is  only  that  he  liveth  and  must  die, 
And  dieth  in  the  hope  to  live  again. 


TO  SOLITUDE. 

I  AM  weary  of  the  working. 

Weary  of  the  long  day's  heat ; 
To  thy  comfortable  bosom, 

Wilt  thou  take  me,  spirit  sweet  ? 

Weary  of  the  long,  blind  struggle 
For  a  pathway  bright  and  high,  — 

Weary  of  the  dimly  dying 

Hopes  that  never  quite  all  die. 

Weary  searching  a  bad  cipher 
For  a  good  that  must  be  meant ; 

Discontent  with  being  weary,  — 
Weary  with  my  discontent. 

I  am  weary  of  the  trusting 

Where  my  trusts  but  torments  prove  ; 
Wilt   thou   keep   faith  with  me  ?  wilt 

thou 
Be  my  true  and  tender  love  ? 

I  am  weary  drifting,  driving 
Like  a  helmless  bark  at  sea ; 

Kindly,  comfortable  spirit, 
Wilt  thou  give  thyself  to  me  ? 

Give  thy  birds  to  sing  me  sonnets  ? 

Give  thy  winds  my  cheeks  to  kiss  ? 
And  thy  mossy  rocks  to  stand  for 

The  memorials  of  our  bliss  ? 

I  in  reverence  will  hold  thee, 

Never  vexed  with  jealous  ills, 
Though  thy  wild  and  wimpling  waters 
Wind  about  a  thousand  hills. 


THE  LAW  OF  LIBERTY. 

THIS  extent  hath  freedom's  ground,  - 
In  my  freedom  I  am  bound 
Never  any  soul  to  wound. 

Not  my  own  :  it  is  not  mine, 

Lord,  except  to  make  it  thine, 

By  good  works  through  grace  divine. 

Not  another's  :   Thou  alone 
Keepest  judgment  for  thine  own ; 
Only  unto  Thee  is  known 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


What  to  pity,  what  to  blame  ; 
How  the  fierce  temptation  came  : 
What  is  honor,  what  is  shame. 

Right  is  bound  in  this —  to  win 
Good  till  injury  begin  ; 
That,  and  only  that,  is  sin. 

Selfish  good  may  not  befall 
Any  man,  or  great  or  small  ; 
Best  for  one  is  best  for  all. 

And  who  vainly  doth  desire 
Good  through  evil  to  acquire, 
In  his  bosom  taketh  fire. 

Wronging  no  man.  Lord,  nor  Thee 
Vexing,  I  do  pray  to  be 
In  my  soul,  my  body,  free. 

Free  to  freely  leave  behind 
When  the  better  things  I  find, 
Worser  things,  howe'er  enshrined. 

So  that  pain  may  peace  enhance, 
And  through  every  change  and  chance, 
I  upon  myself,  advance. 


MY   CREED. 

I  HOLD  that  Christian  grace  abounds 
Where  charity  is  seen  ;  that  when 

We  climb  to  Heaven,  't  is  on  the  rounds 
Of  love  to  men. 

I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 
A  selfish  scheme,  a  vain  pretense  ; 

WThere  centre  is  not  —  can  there  be 
Circumference  ? 

This  I  moreover  hold,  and  dare 

Affirm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go,  — 

Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 

Whether  it  be  the  lullabies 

That  charm  to  rest  the  nursling  bird, 
Or  that  sweet  confidence  of  sighs 

And  blushes,  made  without  a  word. 

Whether  the  dazzling  and  the  flush 
Of  softly  sumptuous  garden  bowers, 

Or  by  some  cabin  door,  a  bush 
Of  ragged  flowers. 

'T  is  not  the  wide  phylactery, 

Nor  stubborn  fast,  nor  stated  prayers, 


That  make  us  saints  :  we  judge  the  tree 
By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 
From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 

I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 
Is  dry  as  dust. 


OPEN   SECRETS.  ' 

THE  truth  lies  round  about  us,  all 
Too  closely  to  be  sought,  — 

So  open  to  our  vision  that 
'T  is  hidden  to  our  thought. 

We  know  not  what  the  glories 
Of  the  grass,  the  flower,  may  be  ; 

We  needs  must  struggle  for  the  sight 
Of  what  we  always  see. 

Waiting  for  storms  and  whirlwinds, 

And  to  have  a  sign  appear, 
We  deem  not  God  is  speaking  in 

The  still  small  voice  we  hear. 

In  reasoning  proud,  blind  leaders  of 
The  blind,  through  life  we  go, 

And  do  not  know  the  things  we  see, 
Nor  see  the  things  we  know. 

Single  and  indivisible, 

We  pass  from  change  to  change, 
Familiar  with  the  strangest  things, 

And  with  familiar,  strange. 

We  make  the  light  through  which  we 
see 

The  light,  and  make  the  dark  : 
To  hear  the  lark  sing,  we  must  be 

At  heaven's  gate  with  the  lark. 


THE   SADDEST   SIGHT. 

As  one  that  leadeth  a  blind  man 

In  a  city,  to  and  fro, 

Thought,  even  so, 
Leadeth  me  still  wherever  it  will 

Through  scenes  of  joy  and  woe. 


King; 


I    have    seen    Lear,    his    white    head 

crowned 

With  poor  straws,  playing 
And,  wearying 
Her  cheeks'  young  flowers  "  with  true- 
love  showers," 
I  have  heard  Ophelia  sing. 


POEMS   OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


I/I 


I  have  been  in  battles,  and  I  have  seen 
Stones  at  the  martyrs  hurled,  — 
Seen  th'  flames  curled 

Round  foreheads  bold,  and  lips  whence 

rolled 
The  litanies  of  the  world. 

But  of  all  sad  sights  that  ever  I  saw, 
The  saddest  under  the  sun, 
Is  a  little  one, 

Whose  poor  pale  face  was  despoiled  of 

grace 
Ere  yet  its  life  begun. 

No  glimpse  of  the  good  green  Nature 
To  gladden  with  sweet  surprise 
The  staring  eyes, 

That  only  have   seen,  close  walls  be 
tween, 
A  hand-breadth  of  the  skies. 

Ah,  never  a  bird  is  heard  to  sing 
At  the  windows  under  ground, 
The  long  year  round  ; 

There,  never  the  morn  on  her  pipes  of 

corn 
Maketh  a  cheerful  sound. 

Oh,  little  white  cloud  of  witnesses 

Against  your  parentage, 

May  Heaven  assuage 
The  woes  that  wait  on  your  dark  es 
tate,  — 

Unorphaned  orphanage. 


THE   BRIDAL   HOUR. 

"  THE  moon's  gray  tent  is  up  :  another 

hour, 
And  yet  another  one  will  bring  the 

time 
To   which,    through    many   cares    and 

checks,  so  slowly, 
The  golden  day  did  climb. 

"  Take  all  the  books  away,  and  let  no 

noises 

Be  in  the   house  while  softly  I  un 
dress 
My  soul   from  broideries  of  disguise, 

and  wait  for 
My  own  true  love's  caress. 

"  The  sweetest  sound  will  tire  to-night ; 

the  dewdrops 

Setting  the  green  ears  in  the  corn 
and  wheat, 


Would  make  a  discord   in   the   heart 

attuned  to 
The  bridegroom's  coming  feet. 

"  Love  !    blessed   Love  !   if  we   could 

hang  our  walls  with 
The  splendors  of  a   thousand   rosy 

Mays, 
Surely  they  would  not  shine  so  well  as 

thou  dost, 
Lighting  our  dusty  days. 

"  Without  thee,  what  a  dim  and  woeful 

story 
Our  years  would  be,  oh,  excellence 

sublime  ! 

Slip  of  the  life  eternal,  brightly  grow 
ing 
In  the  low  soil  of  time  !  " 


IDLE. 

I  HEARD  the  gay  spring  coming, 
I  saw  the  clover  blooming, 

Red    and    white    along    the    mead 
ows  ; 

Red  and  white  along  the  streams  ; 
I  heard  the  bluebird  singing, 
I  saw  the  green  grass  springing, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  heard  the  ploughman's  whistle, 
I  saw  the  rough  burr  thistle 

In    the    sharp    teeth    of     the    har 
row,  — 

Saw  the  summer's  yellow  gleams 
In  the  walnuts,  in  the  fennel, 
In  the  mulleins,  lined  with  flannel, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  felt  the  warm,  bright  weather  ; 
Saw  the  harvest, —  saw  them  gather 

Corn  and  millet,  wheat  and  apples,  — - 

Saw  the  gray  barns  with  their  seams 
Pressing  wide,  —  the  bare-armed  shear 
ers, — 
The  ruddy  water-bearers,  — 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

The  bluebird  and  her  nestling 
Flew  away  ;  the  leaves  fell  rustling, 
The  cold  rain  killed  the  roses, 
The  sun  withdrew  his  beams  ; 


172 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


No  creature  cared  about  me, 
The  world  could  do  without  me, 
All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 
A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 

AH,  there  are  mighty  things  under  the 

sun, 
Great  deeds  have  been  acted,  great 

words  have  been  said, 
Not  just  uplifting  some  fortunate  one, 
But  lifting  up  all  men  the  more  by  a 
head. 

Aye,  the  more  by  the  head,  and  the 

shoulders  too  ! 

Ten  thousand  may  sin,  and  a  thou 
sand  may  fall, 
And  it  may  have  been  me,  and  it  yet 

may  be  you, 

But  the  angel  in  one  proves  the  angel 
in  all. 

And  whatever  is  mighty,  whatever  is 

high, 

Lifting  men,  lifting  woman  their  nat 
ures  above, 
And  close  to  the  kinship  they  hold  to 

the  sky, 

Why,  this  I  affirm,  that  its  essence 
is  Love. 

The  poorest,  the  meanest  has  right  to 

his  share  — 
For  the  life  of  his  heart,  for  the  strength 

of  his  hand, 
'Tis  the  sinew  of  work,  'tis  the  spirit 

of  prayer  — 
And  here,  and  God  help  me,  I  take 

up  my  stand. 

No  pain  but  it  hushes  to  peace  in  its 

arms, 
No  pale  cheek  it  cannot  with  kisses 

make  bright, 
Its  wonder  of  splendors  has  made  the 

world's  storms 

To   shine   as   with    rainbows,    since 
first  there  was  light. 

Go,  bring  me  whatever  the  poets  have 

praised, 

The  mantles  of  queens,  the  red  roses 
of  May, 


I  '11  match  them,  I  care  not  how  grandly 

emblazed, 

With  the  love  of  the  beggar  who  sits 
by  the  way. 

When   I   think  of   the  gifts  that  have 

honored  Love's  shrine  — 
Heart,    hope,    soul,    and    body,   all 

mortal  can  give  — 
For   the    sake    of  a   passion  superbly 

divine, 
I  am  glad,  nay,  and  more,  I  am  proud 

that  I  live  ! 

Fair  women  have  made  them  espousals 

with  death, 
And   through    the   white    flames   as 

through  lilies  have  trod, 
And   men   have   with   cloven   tongues 

preached  for  their  faith, 
And  held  up  their  hands,  stiff  with 
thumb-screws,  to  God. 

I  have  seen  a  great  people  its  vantage 

defer 
To  the  love  that  had  moved  it  as  love 

only  can, 

A   whole    nation    stooping    with    con 
science  astir 

To  a  chattel  with  crop  ears,  and  call 
ing  it  man. 

Compared,  O  my  beautiful  Country,  to 

thee, 

In  this  tenderest  touch  of  the  man 
acled  hand, 
The  tops  of  the  pyramids  sink  to  the 

sea, 

And  the  thrones  of  the  earth  slide  to 
gether  like  sand. 

Immortal  with  beauty  and   vital  with 

youth, 

Thou  standest,  O  Love,  as  thou  al 
ways  hast  stood 

From  the  wastes  of  the  ages,  proclaim 
ing  this  truth, 

All  peoples  and  nations  are  made  of 
one  blood. 

Ennobled  by  scoffing  and  honored  by 

shame, 
The  chiefest  of  great  ones,  the  crown 

and  the  head, 

Attested  by  miracles  done  in  thy  name 
For  the  blind,  for  the  lame,  for  the 

sick  and  the  dead. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


173 


Because  He  in  all  things  was  tempted 

like  me, 
Through  the  sweet  human  hope,  by 

the  cross  that  He  bore, 
For  the  love   which   so  much   to   the 

Marys  could  be, 

Christ  Jesus  the  man,  not  the  God, 
I  adore. 


LIFE'S  MYSTERIES. 

ROUND  and  round  the  wheel  doth  run, 
And  now  doth  rise,  and  now  doth 
fall; 

How  many  lives  we  live  in  one, 
And  how  much  less  than  one,  in  all ! 

The  past  as  present  as  to-day  — 

Ho\v    strange,    how    wonderful !    it 
seems 

A  player  playing  in  a  play, 

A  dreamer  dreaming  that  he  dreams  ! 

But  when  the  mind  through    devious 
glooms 

Drifts  onward  to  the  dark  amain, 
Her  wand  stern  Conscience  reassumes, 

And  holds  us  to  ourselves  again. 

Vague  reminiscences  come  back 

Of  things  we  seem,  in  part,  to  have 
known, 

And  Fancy  pieces  what  they  lack 
With  shreds  and  colors  all  her  own. 

Fancy,  whose  wing  so  high  can  soar, 
Whose  vision  hath  so  broad  a  glance, 

We  feel  sometimes  as  if  no  more 
Amenable  to  change  and  chance. 

And  yet,  one  tiny  thread  being  broke  — 
One  idol  taken  from  our  hands, 

The  eternal  hills  roll  up  like  smoke, 
The   earth's  foundations  shake  like 
sands  ! 

Ah  !  how  the  colder  pulse  still  starts 
To  think  of  that  one  hour  sublime, 

We    hugged    heaven    down   into    our 

hearts, 
And  clutched  eternity  in  time  ! 

When  love's  dear  eyes  first  looked  in 

ours, 

When  love's  dear  brows  were  strange 
to  frowns, 


When  all  the  stars  were  burning  flowers 
That  we   might   pluck  and  wear  for 
crowns. 

We  cannot  choose  but  cry  and  cry  — 
Oh,  that  its  joys  we  might  repeat  ! 

When  just  its  mutability 

Made  all  the  sweetness  of  it  sweet. 

Close  to  the  precipice's  brink 
We  press,  look  down,  and,  while  we 

quail 
From   the   bad   thought   we   dare   not 

think, 
Lift  curiously  the  awful  vail. 

We  do  the  thing  we  would  not  do  — 
Our  wills  being  set  against  our  wills, 

And  suffer  o'er  and  o'er  anew 
The  penalty  our  peace  that  kills. 

Great  God,  we  know  not  what  we  know 
Or  what  we  are,  or  are  to  be  ! 

We  only  trust  we  cannot  go 

Through   sin's    disgrace   outside   of 
thee. 

And  trust  that  though  we  are  driven  in 
And  forced  upon  the  name  to  call 

At  last,  by  very  strength  of  sin, 
Thou  wilt  .have  mercy  on  us  all  ! 


WE  are  the  mariners,  and  God  the  Sea, 
And  though  we  make  false  reckon 
ings,  and  run 
Wide   of  a  righteous  course,  and  are 

undone, 
Out  of  his  deeps  of  love  we  cannot  be. 

For  by  those  heavy  strokes  we  misname 

ill, 
Through  the  fierce  fire  of  sin,  through 

tempering  doubt, 
Our  natures  more  and  more  are  beaten 

out 
To  perfecter  reflections  of  his  will ! 


THE  best  man  should  never  pass  by 
The  worst,  but  to  brotherhood  true, 

Entreat  him  thus  gently,  "  Lo,  I 
Am  tempted  in  all  things  as  you." 

Of  one  dust  all  peoples  are  made, 
One  sky  doth  above  them  extend, 


174 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  whether  through  sunshine  or  shade 
Their  paths  run,  they  meet  at  the  end. 

And  whatever  his  honors  may  be,  — 
Of  riches,  or  genius,  or  blood, 

God  never  made  any  man  free 
To  find  out  a  separate  good. 


PLEDGES. 

SOMETIMES  the  softness  of  the  embrac 
ing  air, 
The  tender  beauty  of  the  grass  and 

sky, 
The  look  of  still  repose  the  mountains 

wear, 
The    sea-waves     that     beside    each 

other  lie 
Contented    in   the    sun  —  the   flowery 

gleams 

Of  gardens  by  the  doors  of  cottages, 
The    sweet,    delusive    blessedness    of 

dreams, 
The  pleasant  murmurs  of  the  forest 

trees 
Clinging  to  one  another  —  all  I  see, 

And  hear,  and  all  that  fancy  paints, 
Do  touch  me  with  a  deep  humility, 
And   make   me   be   ashamed  of  my 

complaints. 

Then,  in  my  meditations,  I  resolve 
That  I  will  never,  while  I  live,  again 
Ruffle  the  graceful  ministries  of  love 
With     brows     distrustful,    or    with 

wishes  vain. 
Then  I  make  pledges  to  my  heart  and 

say 

We  two  will  live  serener  lives  hence 
forth  ; 
7cr   what   is   all   the   outward   beauty 

worth, 
The  golden  opening  of  the  sweetest 

day 

That  ever  shone,  if  we  arise  to  hide, 
Not  from  ourselves,  but  from  men's 

eyes  away, 
The  last  night's  petulance  unpacified  ! 


PROVERBS   IN    RHYME. 

TIME  makes  us  eagle-eyed  : 

Our   fantasies    befriend    us    in    our 

youth, 
Anc  build  the  shadowy  tents  wherein 

we  hide 
Cut  of  the  glare  of  truth. 


Make  no  haste  to  despise 

The  proud  of  spirit:  ofttimes  pride 

but  is 
An  armor  worn  to  shield  from  insolent 

eyes 
Our  human  weaknesses. 

Be  slow  to  blame  his  course 

Or  name  him  coward  who  disdains  to 

fight: 
Courage  is  just  a  blind  impelling  force, 

And  often  wrong  as  right. 

Condemn  not  her  whose  hours 

Are  not  all  given  to  spinning  nor  to 

care  : 
Has  not  God  planted  every  path  with 

flowers 
Whose  end  is  to  be  fair  ? 

Think  not  that  he  is  cold 

Who    runneth    not    your    proffered 

hand  to  touch  : 
On  feeling's  heights  't  is  wise  the  step 

to  hold 
From  trembling  overmuch  ; 

And  though  its  household  sweets 
Affection  may  through  daily  channels 
give, 

The  heart  is  chary,  and  ecstatic  beats 
Once  only  while  we  live. 


FAME. 

FAME  guards    the   wreath   we   call  a 
crown 

With  other  wreaths  of  fire, 
And  dragging  this  or  that  man  down 

Will  not  raise  you  the  higher  ! 
Fear  not  too  much  the  open  seas, 

Nor  yet  yourself  misdoubt  ; 
Clear  the  bright  wake  of  geniuses, 

Then  steadily  steer  out. 
That   wicked    men    in    league    should 
be 

To  push  your  craft  aside, 
Is  not  the  hint  of  modesty, 

But  the  poor  conceit  of  pride. 


GENIUS. 

A  CUNNING  and  curious  splendor, 
That  glorifies  commonest  things  — 

Palissy,  with  clay  from  the  river, 
Moulds  cups  for  the  tables  of  kings. 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


175 


A  marvel  of  sweet  and  wise  madness, 
That  passes  our  skill  to  define  ; 

It  clothes  the  poor  peasant  with  grand 
eur, 
And  turns  his  rude  hut  to  a  shrine. 

Full  many  a  dear  little  daisy 

Had  passed  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Ere  Burns,  with  his  pen  and  his  plough 
share, 

Upturned  and  immortalled  that  one. 

And  just  with  a  touch  of  its  magic 
It  gives  to  the  poet's  rough  rhyme 

A  something  that  makes  the  world  lis 
ten, 
And  will,  to  the  ending  of  time. 

It  puts  a  great  price  upon  shadows  — 
Holds  visions,  all  rubies  above, 

And  shreds  of  old  tapestries  pieces 
To  legends  of  glory  and  love. 

The  ruin  it  builds  into  beauty, 
Uplifting  the  low-lying  towers, 

Makes  green  the  waste   place  with   a 

garden, 
And  shapes  the  dead  dust  into  flowers. 

It  shows  us  the  lovely  court  ladies, 
All  shining  in  lace  and  brocade  ; 

The  knights,  for  their  gloves  who  did 

battle, 
In  terrible  armor  arrayed. 

It  gives  to  the  gray  head  a  glory, 
And  grace  to  the  eyelids  that  weep, 

And  makes  our  last  enemy  even, 
To  be  as  the  brother  of  sleep. 

A  marvel  of  madness  celestial, 
That  causes  the  weed  at  our  feet, 

The  thistle  that  grows  at  the  wayside, 
To   somehow   look   strange   and   be 

sweet. 

No  heirs  hath  it,  neither  ancestry  ; 

But  just  as  it  listeth,  and  when, 
It  seals  with  its  own  royal  signet 

The  foreheads  of  women  and  men. 


IN  BONDS. 

WHILE  shines  the  sun,  the  storm  even 

then 

Has    struck    his    bargain    with    the 
sea  — 


Oh,  lives  of  women,  lives  of  men, 
How  pressed,  how  poor,  how  pinched 

ye  be  ! 

It  is  as  if,  having  granted  power 

Almost  omnipotent  to  man, 
Heaven  grudged  the   splendor  of   the 
dower, 

And  going  back  upon  her  plan, 

Mortised  his  free  feet  in  the  ground, 
Closed  him  in  walls  of  ignorance, 

And  all  the  soul  within  him  bound 
In  the  dull  hindrances  of  sense. 

Hence,   while    he    goads    his   will    to 
rise, 

As  one  his  fallen  ox  might  urge, 
The  conflict  of  the  impatient  cries 

Within  him  wastes  him  like  a  scourge. 

Even  as  dreams  his  days  depart, 
His  work  no  sure  foundation  forms, 

Immortal  yearnings  in  his  heart, 
And  empty  shadows  in  his  arms  ! 

It  is  as  if,  being  come  to  land, 

Some  pestilence,  with  fingers  black, 
Loosed  from    the   wheel    the    master 

hand 

And     drove     the    homesick     vessel 
back  ; 

As  if  the  nurslings  of  his  care 

Chilled  him  to  death  with  their  em 
brace  ; 
As  if  that  she  he  held  most  fair 

Turned   round   and  mocked  him  to 
his  face. 

And  thus  he  stands,  and  ever  stands, 
Tempted    without    and    torn    with 
in  ; 
Ashes  of  ashes  in  his  hands, 

Famished   and  faint,   and    sick  with 
sin. 

Seeing  the  cross,  and  not  the  crown  ; 
The  o'erwhelming  flood,  and  not  the 

ark  ; 

Till  gap  by  gap  his  faith  throws  down 
Its    guards,  and    leaves  him   to  the 
dark. 

And  when  the  last  dear  hope  has  fled, 
And  all  is  weary,  dreary  pain, 

That  enemy,  most  darkly  dread, 
Grows  pitiful,  and  snaps  the  chain. 


1 76 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


NOBILITY. 

TRUE  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeming,  — 

In  doing  each  day  that  goes  by 
Some  little  good  —  not  in  the  dream 
ing 

Of  great  things  to  do  by  and  by. 
For  whatever  men  say  in  blindness, 

And  spite  of  the  fancies  of  youth, 
There's   nothing  so   kingly   as    kind 
ness, 

And  nothing  so  royal  as  truth. 

We  get  back  our  mete   as  we   meas 
ure — 

We  cannot  do  wrong  and  feel  right, 
Nor  can  we  give  pain  and  gain  pleas 
ure, 

For  justice  avenges  each  slight. 
The  air  for  the  wing  of  the  sparrow, 
The  bush  for  the  robin  and  wren, 
But  alway  the  path  that  is  narrow 
And    straight,    for    the    children    of 
men. 

'T  is  not  in  the  pages  of  story 

The  heart  of  its  ills  to  beguile, 
Though    he  who    makes    courtship    to 
glory 

Gives  all  that  he  hath  for  her  smile. 
For  when  from  her  heights  he  has  won 
her, 

Alas  !  it  is  only  to  prove 
That  nothing  's  so  sacred  as  honor, 

And  nothing  so  loyal  as  love  ! 


We  cannot  make  bargains  for  blisses, 

Nor  catch  them  like  fishes  in  nets  ; 
And    sometimes    the    thing    our    life 
misses, 

Helps  more  than  the  thing  which  it 

gets. 
For  good  lieth  not  in  pursuing, 

Nor  gaining  of  great  nor  of  small, 
But  just  in  the  doing,  and  doing 

As  we  would  be  done  by,  is  all. 

Through  envy,  through  malice,  through 
hating, 

Against  the  world,  early  and  late, 
No  jot  of  our  courage  abating  — 

Our  part  is  to  work  and  to  wait. 
And  slight  is  the  sting  of  his  trouble 

Whose  winnings  are   less    than   his 

worth  ; 
For  he  who  is  honest  is  noble, 

Whatever  his  fortunes  or  birth. 


TO  THE   MUSE. 

PHANTOMS  come  and  crowd  me  thick, 
And  my  heart  is  sick,  so  sick ; 
Kindness  no  more  refresh 
Brain  nor  body,  mind  nor  flesh. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  comfort  me 
With  thy  heavenly  company. 

Thieves  beset  me  on  my  way. 

Day  and  night  and  night  and  day, 

Stealing  all  the  lovely  light 

That  did  make  my  dreams  so  bright. 

Good    Muse,   sweet    Muse,   hide    my 

treasures 
High  among  immortal  pleasures. 

Friendship's  watch  is  weary  grown, 
And  I  lie  alone,  alone  ; 
Love  against  me  flower-like  closes, 
Blushing,  opening  toward  the  roses. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  keep  my  friend 
To  the  sad  and  sunless  end. 

Oh,  the  darkness  of  the  estate 
Where  I,  stript  and  bleeding,  wait, 
Torn  with  thorns  and  with  wild  woe, 
In  my  house  of  dust  so  low  ! 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  make  my  faith 
Strong  to  triumph  over  death. 

Rock  me  both  at  morns  and  eves 
In  a  cradle  lined  with  leaves  — 
Light  as  winds  that  stir  the  willows 
Stir  my  hard  and  heavy  pillows. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  rock  me.  soft, 
Till  my  thoughts  soar  all  aloft. 

Seal  my  eyes  from  earthly  things 
With  the  shadow  of  thy  wings, 
Fill  with  songs  the  wiklering  spaces, 
Till  I  see  the  old,  old  faces, 
Rise  forever,  on  forever  — 
Good    Muse,   sweet   Muse,   leave   me 
never. 


HER  voice  was  sweet  and  low  ;  her  face 
No  words  can  make  appear, 

For  it  looked  out  of  heaven  but  long 

enough 
To  leave  a  shadow  here. 

And  I  only  knew  that  I  saw  the  face, 

And  saw  the  shadow  fall, 
And  that  she  carried  my  heart  away 

And  keeps  it ;  that  is  all. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


177 


NO  RING. 


WHAT  is   it  that  doth  spoil  the   fair 

adorning 

With  which  her  body  she  would  dig 
nify, 
When  from   her  bed  she  rises  in  the 

morning 

To  comb,  and  plait,  and  tie 
Her  hair  with  ribbons,  colored  like  the 
sky? 

What  is  it  that  her  pleasure  discom 
poses 
When   she  would   sit  and   sing  the 

sun  away  — 
Making    her  see    dead    roses   in   red 

roses, 

And  in  the  downfall  gray 
A  blight  that  seems  the  world  to  over 
lay  ? 

What  is  it  makes  the  trembling  look  of 

trouble 
About  her  tender  mouth  and  eyelids 

fair  ? 
Ah    me,   ah  me  !  she  feels    her   heart 

beat  double, 

Without  the  mother's  prayer, 
And  her  wild  fears  are  more  than  she 
can  bear. 

To  the  poor  sightless  lark  new  powers 

are  given, 
Not  only  with  a   golden  tongue  to 

sing, 
But    still   to  make    her  wavering  way 

toward  heaven 
With  undiscerning  wing  ; 
But  what  to  her  doth  her  sick  sorrow 
bring  ? 

Her  days    she    turns,   and  yet   keeps 

overturning, 
And  her  flesh  shrinks  as  if  she  felt 

the  rod  ; 
For  'gainst   her  will    she   thinks    hard 

things  concerning 
The  everlasting  God, 
And   longs   to   be    insensate   like   the 
clod. 

Sweet  Heaven,  be   pitiful !  rain  down 

upon  her 

The   saintly   charities   ordained   for 
such  ; 

12 


She   was    so  poor    in    everything   but 

honor, 
And  she  loved  much  —  loved 

much  ! 
Would,  Lord,  she  had  thy  garment's 

hem  to  touch. 

Haply,  it  was  the  hungry  heart  within 

her, 

The  woman's  heart,  denied  its  nat 
ural  right, 

That  made  her  the  thing  men  call  sin 
ner, 

Even  in  her  own  despite  : 
Lord,    that   her  judges   might  receive 
their  sight ! 


TEXT  AND   MORAL. 

FULL  early  in  that  dewy  time  of  year 
When  wheat   and   barley  fields    are 

gay  and  green, 
And  when  the  flag  uplifts  his  dull  gray 

spear, 
And  cowslips  in   their  yellow  coats 

are  seen, 
And  every  grass-tuft  by  the  common 

ways 
Holdeth  some   red-mouthed  flower   to 

give  it  praise  : 

Just  as  the  dawn  was  at  that  primal  hour 
That    brings     such     tender    golden 

sweetness  in, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  had  left   his   eastern 

bower 
And  set  upon  the  hills  his  rounded 

chin, 
I  heard  a  little  song  —  three  notes  — 

not  more  — 
Plained  like  a  low  petition  at  my  door. 

And  all  that  day  and  other  days  I  heard 
The  same  low  asking  note,  and  then 

I  found 

My  beggar  in  the  likeness  of  a  bird. 
Surely,  I  said,  she  hideth  some  deep 

wound 
Under    the    speckled    beauty  of    her 

wing, 
That  she  doth  seem  to  rather  cry  than 

sing. 

Haply  some  treacherous  man,  and  evil^ 

eyed, 

Hath  spoiled  her  nest  or  snared  her 
lovely  mate, 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


But  while  I  spoke,  a  bird  unharmed  I 

spied 
High  in  the  elm-top,   all   his   heart 

elate, 
And    splitting  with  its  joy  his  shining 

bill, 
Unmindful  of   that  low,   sad   "  trill-a- 

trill  !  " 

At    sunset  came  my  boys  with  cheeks 

ablush, 

And  fairly  flying  on  their  arms  and 
legs, 

To  tell  that  they  had  found   within  a 

bush 

A  bird's-nest,  lined  with  little  rose- 
leaf  eggs  !  _ 

Then,    inly    musing,    I    renewed    my 
quest 

Knowing  that  no  bird  singeth  on  her 
nest. 

And  still,  the  softest  morns,  the  sweet 
est  eves, 

And   when   from   out    the    midnight 
blue  and  still, 

The   tender  moon  looked  in  between 
the  leaves, 

That    little,  plaining,  pleading  trill-a- 
trill  ! 

Would  tremble  out,  and  fall  away,  and 
fade, 

And  so  I   mused   and  mused,  until    I 
made 

A  text  at  last  of  the  melodious  cry, 
And  drew  this  moral  (was  it  fetched 

too  far  ?) 
Life's  inequalities  so  underlie 

The  things  we  have,  so  rest  in  what 

we  are, 
That  each  must  steadfast  to  his  nature 

keep, 
And  one  must  soar  and  sing,  and  one 

must  weep. 


TO   MY  FRIEND. 

IF  we  should  see  one  sowing  seed 

With  patient  care  and  toil  and  pain, 
Then  to  some  other  garden  speed 
And  sow  again  ; 

And  so  right  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  so  right  on  through  months  and 
years, 


Watering  the  furrows  all  the  way 
With  rain  of  tears  ; 

Ne'er  gladdened  by  the  yellowing  top 

Of  harvest,  nor  of  ripened  rose, 
Till  suddenly  the  plough  should  stop,  — 
The  work-day  close  ; 

Should  we  not,  as  hte  day  ran  by, 

Wonder  to  see  him  take  no  ease, 
And  cry  at  nightfall,  "Vanity 
Of  Vanities !  " 

And  yet  't  is  thus,  my  friend,  the  hours 

And  days  go  by,  with  you  and  me. 
We,  too,  are  sowing  seeds  of  flowers 
We  never  see. 

Sometimes  we  sow  in  soil  of  sin  ; 
Sometimes    where    choking    thorns 

abound  ; 

And  sometimes  cast  our  good  seed  in 
Dry,  stony  ground. 

Our  stalks  spring  up  and  fade  and  die 

Under  the  burning  noontide  heat, 
And  hopes  and  plans  about  us  lie 
All  incomplete  ; 

And  as  the  toilsome  days  go  by 
Unrespited  with  flowery  ease, 
Angels  may  cry  out,  "  Vanity 
Of  Vanities  !  " 

Oh,  when,  fruitionless,  the  night 
Descends  upon  our  day  of  ills, 
God  grant  we  find  our  harvests  white 
On  heavenly  hills. 


ONE  OF  MANY. 

BECAUSE  I  have  not  done  the  things  I 

know 

I  ought  to  do,  my  very  soul  is  sad  ; 
And  furthermore,  because  that  I  have 

had 
Delights   that   should    have    made   to 

overflow 

My  cup  of   gladness,  and   have   not 
been  glad. 

All  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  poor  I  live  ; 
My  house,    my   friend,    with    heavy 

heart  I  see, 
As  if  that  mine  they  were  not  meant 

to  be  ; 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING, 


1/9 


For  of  the   sweetness  of  the   things   I 

have 

A  churlish   conscience  dispossesses 
me. 

I  do  desire,  nay,  long,  to  put  my  powers 
To  better  service  than   I  yet  have 

done  — 
Not  hither,  thither,  without  purpose 

run, 

And  gather  just  a  handful  of  the  flowers, 
And  catch  a  little  sunlight  of  the  sun. 

Lamenting  all  the  night  and  all  the  day 
Occasion  lost,  and  losing  in  lament 
The    golden    chances    that    I    know 

were  meant 

For  wiser  uses  —  asking  overpay 
When  nothing  has  been  earned,  and 
all  was  lent. 

Keeping  in  dim  and  desolated  ways, 
And  where   the  wild  winds   whistle 

loud  and  shrill 
Through    leafless   bushes,    and    the 

birds  are  still, 
And  where  the  lights  are  lights  of  other 

days  — 
A  sad  insanity  o'ermastering  will. 

And  saddest  of  the  sadness  is  to  know 
It    is    not  fortune's    fault,    but   only 

mine, 
That  far  away   the   hills   of    roses 

shine  — 
And   far   away  the   pipes    of   pleasure 

blow  — 

That  we,  and  not  our  stars,  our  fates 
assign. 


LIGHT. 

BE    not    much   troubled   about   many 
things, 

Fear  often  hath  no  whit  of  substance 

in  it, 
And  lives  but  just  a  minute  ; 

While  from  the  very  snow  the  wheat- 
blade  springs. 
And  light  is  like  a  flower, 

That  bursts  in  full  leaf  from  the  darkest 

hour. 
And  He  who  made  the  night, 

Made,   too,   the    flowery  sweetness  of 
the  light. 

7$°:  if  thy  task,  through  his  good  grace, 
to  win  it. 


TRUST. 

SOMETIMES  when  hopes  have  vanished, 

one  and  all, 
Soft  lights  drop  round  about  me  in 

•    their  stead, 
As    if    there    had    been    cast    across 

Heaven's  wall 
Handfuls    of   roses    down    upon  my 

bed  ; 
Then   through  my  darkness   pleasures 

come  in  crowds, 

Shining  like  larks'  wings  in  the  sombre 
clouds, 

And  I   am  fed  with  sweetness,  as   of 

dew 

Strained  through  the  leaves  of  pan- 
sies  at  day  dawn  ; 

But  not  the  flowery  lights  that  over- 
strew 
The  bed  my  weary  body  rests  upon, 

Is    it   that   maketh   all   my   house   so 
bright, 

And  feedeth  all  my  soul  with  such  de 
light. 

Nay,    ne'er   could   heavenly,  veritable 

flowers 

Make     the    rude    time    to    run    so 
smoothly  by, 

And  tie  with  amity  the  alien  hours, 
As  might  some  maiden,  with  her  rib 
bon,  tie 

A  bunch  of  homely  posies  into  one, 

Making  all  fair,  when  none  were  fair 
alone. 

But  lying  disenchanted  of  my  fear, 
'Neath    the     gold    borders    of     my 
"  coverlid  " 

So  overstrown,  I  feel  my  flesh  so  near 
Things   lovely,  that,  my  body  being 
hid 

Out  of  the  sunshine,  shall  not  harm  en 
dure, 

But   mix  with  daisies,  and  grow  fair 
and  pure. 

Oh,  comfortable   thought !   yet   not  of 

this 
Get  I  the  peace  that  drieth  all  my 

tears  ; 
For,  wrapped  within  this  truth,  another 

is 

Sweeter  and   stronger  to  dispel  my 
fears  : 


i8o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


If  through    its   change    my  flesh  shall 

death  defy 
Surely  my  soul  shall  not  be  left  to  die. 

Our  God,  who  taketh  knowledge  of  the 

flowers 
Making  our  bodies  change  to  things 

so  fine, 
Knoweth    the    insatiate    longings    that 

are  ours, 
For  fadeless   blooms  and  suns  that 

always  shine. 
His  name  is  Love,  and  love  can  work 

no  ill  ; 
Hence,  though  He  slay  me,  I  will  trust 

Him  still. 


LIFE. 

SOLITUDE  —  Life     is     inviolate     soli 
tude — 
Never  was  truth  so  apart  from  the 

dreaming 
As   lieth  the  selfhood  inside  of  the 

seeming, 
Guarded  with  triple  shield  out   of  all 

quest, 
So  that  the  sisterhood  nearest  and 

sweetest, 
So   that    the    brotherhood    kindest, 

completest, 
Is  but  an  exchanging  of  signals  at  best. 

Desolate  —  Life  is  so  dreary  and  deso 
late- 
Women  and  men  in  the  crowd  meet 

and  mingle, 
Yet  with  itself  every  soul  standeth 

single, 
Deep    out    of    sympathy  moaning   its 

moan  — 

Holding  and  having  its  brief  exulta 
tion  — 

Making  its  lonesome  and  low  lamen 
tation  — 
Fighting  its  terrible  conflicts  alone. 

Separate  —  Life  is  so  sad  and  so  sep 
arate  — 

Under  love's  ceiling  with  roses  for 
lining, 

Heart  mates  with  heart  in  a  tender 

entwining. 

Yet  never  the  sweet  cup  of  love  filleth 
full- 

Eye  looks  in   eye  with  a  questioning 
wonder, 


Why   are  we  thus  in   our   meeting 

asunder  ? 
Why  are  our  pulses  so  slow  and  so  dull  ? 

Fruitless,   fruitionless  —  Life    is   frui- 

tionless  — 
Never  the  heaped  up  and  generous 

measure  — 
Never    the    substance    of    satisfied 

pleasure  — 

Never  the  moment  with  rapture  elate  — 
But  draining  the  chalice,  we  long  for 

the  chalice, 
And  live  as  an  alien  inside  of  our 

palace, 
Bereft  of  our  title  and  deeds  of  estate. 

Pitiful  —  Life  is   so  poor  and  so  piti 
ful- 
Cometh  the  cloud  on  the  goldenest 

weather  — 
Briefly  the  man  and  his  youth  stay 

together  — 

Falleth  the  frost  ere  the  harvest  is  in, 
And  conscience  descends   from  the 

open  aggression 
To  timid   and   troubled  and  tearful 

concession, 

And  downward  and  down  into  parley 
with  sin. 

Purposeless  —  Life  is  so  wayward  and 

purposeless  — 

Always  before  us  the  object  is  shift 
ing. 
Always  the  means   and  the  method 

are  drifting, 
We  rue  what  is  done  —  what  is  undone 

deplore  — 
More   striving  for  high  things  than 

things  that  are  holy. 
And  so  we  go  down  to  the  valley  so 

lowly 

Wherein    there   is   work,   and   device 
never  more. 

Vanity,  vanity  —  all  would  be  vanity, 
Whether  in    seeking  or  getting  our 

pleasures  — 
Whether   in   spending   or    hoarding 

our  treasures  — 
Whether    in     indolence,    whether    in 

strife  — 
Whether  in  .easting  and  whether  in 

fasting, 

But  for  our  faith  in  the  Love  ever 
lasting  — 
But  for  the  life  that  is  better  than  life. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


181 


PLEA    FOR   CHARITY. 


IF  one  had   never  seen  the  full  com 
pleteness 
Of  the  round  year,  but   tarried  half 

the  way, 

How  should  he  guess  the  fair  and  flow 
ery  sweetness 

That  cometh  with  the  May  — 
Guess  of  the  bloom,  and  of  the  rainy 

sweetness 
That  come  in  with  the  May  ! 

Suppose  he  had  but  heard  the  winds 

a-blowing, 
And  seen  the  brooks   in  icy  chains 

fast  bound, 
How  should  he   guess  that  waters    in 

their  flowing 

Could  make  so  glad  a  sound  — 
Guess  how  their  silver  tongues  should 

be  set  going 
To  such  a  tuneful  sound  ! 

Suppose  he  had  not  seen  the  bluebirds 

winging, 

Nor  seen  the  day  set,  nor  the  morn 
ing  rise, 
Nor    seen   the   golden    balancing   and 

swinging 

Of  the  gay  butterflies  — 
Who  could  paint  April  pictures,  worth 

the  bringing 
To  notice  of  his  eyes  ? 

Suppose   he   had   not   seen  the  living 

daisies, 
Nor  seen  the  rose,  so  glorious  and 

bright, 
Were  it  not  better   than  your  far-off 

praises 

Of  all  their  lovely  light, 
To  give  his  hands  the  holding  of  the 

daisies, 
And  of  the  roses  bright  ? 

O  Christian  man,  deal  gently  with  the 

sinner  — 

Think  what  an  utter  wintrv  waste  is 
his 


He   never  heard  the  lisping  and  the 

trembling 
Of  Eden's  gracious  leaves  about  his 

head  — 

His  mirth  is  nothing  but  the  poor  dis 
sembling 

Of  a  great  soul  unfed  — 
Oh,  bring  him  where  the  Eden-leaves 

are  trembling, 
And  give  him  heavenly  bread. 

As  Winter  doth  her  shriveled  branches 

cover 

With    greenness,    knowing    spring 
time's  soft  desire. 
Even  so  the  soul,  knowing  Jesus  for  a 

lover, 

Puts  on  a  new  attire  — 
A  garment  fair  as  snow,  to  meet  the 

Lover 
Who  bids  her  come  up  higher. 


SECOND   SIGHT. 

MY  thoughts,  I  fear,  run  less  to  right 

than  wrong, 
And  I  am  selfish,  sinful,  being  hu 

man  ; 
But  yet  sometimes    an  impulse  sweet 

and  strong 
Touches  my  heart,  for   I  am  still  a 

woman  ; 

And  yesterday,  beside  my  cradle  sit- 
' 


And   broidering    lilies    through    my 

lullabies, 
My  heart  stirred  in  me,  just  as  if  the 

flitting 
Of  some  chance  angel  touched  me, 

and  my  eyes 
Filled  all  at  once  to  tender  overflow 

ing, 
And  my  song  ended  —  breaking  up 

in  sighs  ; 
I  could  not  see  the  lilies  I  was  sew 

ing 
For  the   hot  tears,  thick  coining  to 

my  eyes. 


Whose  heart  of   love  has  never  been  I   The  unborn  years,  like  rose-leaves  in  a 

the  winner,  flame, 

To  know  how  sweet  it  is  -  Shriveled    together,    and    this    vision 

Be    pitiful,    O    Christian,    to    the    sin-  came, 

ner>  For  I  was   gifted  with  a  second  see- 
Think  what  a  world  is  Irs  !  ing : 


182 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


'T  was  night,  and  darkly  terrible  with   j   The  moth  will  spoil  the  garment  with 

storms, 
And    I    beheld    my   cherished   darling 

fleeing 
In    all    her    lily   broideries    from    my 

arms  — 
A  babe  no  longer.     Wild  the  wind  was 

blowing, 
And  the  snows  round  her  soddened  as 

they  fell ; 
And  when  a  whisper  told  me  she  was 

going 
That  way  wherein  the  feet  take   hold 

on  hell, 
I  could  not  cry,  I  could  not  speak  nor 

stir, 
Held   in   mute  torture   by  my  love  of 

her. 

We  make  the  least  ado  o'er  greatest 

troubles  ; 
Our  very  anguish  doth  our  anguish 

drown  ; 
The   sea   forms   only  just  a  few  faint 

bubbles 

Of  stifled  breathing  when  a  ship  goes 
down. 

'T  was  but  a  moment  —  then  the  merry 

laughter 
Of   my  sweet   baby   on    the    nurse's 

knee 

Rippled  across  the  mists  of  fantasy  ; 
And  sunshine,  stretching  like  a  golden 

rafter 
From  cornice  on  to  cornice  o'er  my 

head, 
Scattered     the     darkness,    and    my 

vision  fled. 

Times  fall  when  Fate   just  misses  of 

her  blows, 
And,  being  warned,  the  victim  slips 

aside  ; 
And   thus    it  was  with    me  —  the    idle 

shows, 
The    foolish    pomp    of    vanity    and 

pride, 
The  work  of  cunning  hands  and  curious 

looms, 

Shining   about    my  house  like    poppy- 
blooms, 
Like  poppy-blooms  had  drowsed  me, 

heart  and  brain  ; 
And  all  the  currents  of  my  blood  were 

setting 

To  that  bad  dullness  that  is  worse 
than  pain. 


its  fretting 
Surer  and  faster  than  the  work-day 

wear. 
The  quickening  vision  came  —  not  all 

too  late  : 
I  saw  that  there  were  griefs  for  me 

to  share, 

And   the    poor   worldling   missed    the 
worldling's  fate. 

There  was  my  baby  —  there  was  I,  the 

mother, 
Broidering  my  lilies   by  the   golden 

gleam 
Of  the  glad  sunshine  ;  but  was    there 

no  other 
Fleeing,  as  fled  the  phantom  in  my 

dream  ? 
Were  there  no  hearts,  because  of  their 

great  loving, 
Bound  to  the  wheel  of  torture  past  all 

moving  ? 
No   storms   of  awful   sorrow  to  be 

stemmed  ? 

Yea,  out   of   my  own  heart  I  stood 
condemned. 

Leaving  the    silken    splendor  of    my 

rooms, 
The      sunshine     stretching     like     a 

golden  rafter 
From  cornice  on  to  cornice,  and  the 

laughter 
Of    my   sweet    baby   on    the    nurse's 

knee, 
Calling  me   back,  and  almost  keeping 

me  — 

Leaving  my  windows  bright  with  flow 
ery  blooms, 

I   passed   adown   my  broad   embla 
zoned  hall, 
Along    the     soft    mats,    tufted     thick 

across  — 
Scarlet   and   green,   like   roses   grown 

with  moss  ; 
And  parting  from  my  pleasures,  one 

and  all, 

Threaded  my  way  through  many  a  nar 
row  street, 
From    whose    low    cellars,    lit   with 

scanty  embers, 
Came  great-eyed    children,  with   bare, 

shivering  feet, 
And   wondered   at    me,  through  the 

doors  gaped  wide, 

Till    they    were    crowded    back,    or 
pushed  aside, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


183 


By  some  lean-elbowed  man,  or  flabby 

crone, 
Upon  whose  foreheads  discontent  had 

grown, 
As  grows  the  mildew  on  decaying 

timbers. 

"  All  thine  is  mine,"  came  to  me  from 

the  fall 

Of  every  beggar's  footstep,  and  the 
glooms 

That  hung  around  held  yet  this  other 
call: 

"  Who  to  himself  lives  only  is  not  liv 
ing ; 

He  hath  no  gain  who  does  not  get  by 

giving." 
And  so  I  came  beneath  the  cold  gray 

wall 
That  shapes  the  awful  prison  of  the 

Tombs. 

Humility  had  been  my  gentle  guide  — 
I    saw   her    not,    a   heavenly    spirit 

she  — 
And  when  the  fearful  door  swung  open 

wide 

I  heard  her  pleasant  steps  go  in  with 
me. 

Oh  for  a  tongue,  and  oh  !  for  words  to 

tell 
Of  the  young  creature,  masked  with 

sinful  guise, 
That  stood  before   me  in  her  narrow 

cell 

And  dragged  my  heart  out  with  her 
pleading  eyes. 

I  shook  from  head  to  foot, , and  could 
not  stir  — 

Afraid,  but  not  so  much  afraid  of  her 

As  of  myself  —  made  like  her  —  of  one 
dust, . 

And  holding  an  immortal  soul  in  trust 

The  same  as  she  —  perhaps  not  even 
so  good, 

Tempted  with  her  temptations.  Was  't 
for  me 

To  hold  myself  apart  and  call  her  sin 
ner  ? 

Not  so  ;  and  silent,  face  to  face  we 
stood, 

And  as  some  traveler  in  the  night  be 
lated 

Waits  for  the  star  he  knows  must  rise, 
so  I 

Patient  within  the  prison  darkness 
waited, 


Trusting  to  see  the  better  self  within 

her 
Rise  from  the  ruins  of  her  womanhood. 

Nor   did  I  wait  in   vain.     At  last,  at 

last, 
Her  eager  hand  reached  forth  and  held 

me  fast, 
And   drawing    just   a  little    broken 

breath, 
As    if   she    stood    upon    that   narrow 

ground 
That  lies  a-tremble  betwixt  life  and 

death, 
Her  yearning,  fearful  soul  expression 

found  : 

"I'm   dying  —  dying,  and    your  dewy 

hand 

Is  like  the  shadow  to  the  sickly  plant 
Whose  root  is  in  the  dry  and  burning 

sand. 
Pity,    sweet    Pity — that    is  what    I 

want. 
You  bring  it  —  ah  !  you  would  not,  if 

you  knew. 
I    clasped   her  closer :    "  Friend,  dear 

friend,  I  do  ! 
I  know  it  all — from  first  to  last,"  I 

said. 
"  'T  was  but  a  blind,  mistaken  search 

for  good  ; 

Premeditated  evil  never  led 
To  this  sad  end."     As  one  entranced 

she  stood, 
And  I  went  on  :  "  Nay,  but  't  is  not 

the  end  : 
God    were    not    God   if   such    a    thing 

could  be  — 

If  not  in  time,  then  in  eternity, 
There  must  be  room  for  penitence  to 

mend 

Life's  broken  chance,  else  noise  of  wars 
Would  unmake  heaven. 

The  shadows  of  the  bars 
That  darkened  the  poor  face  like  dev 
ils'  fingers 

Faded  away,  and  still  in  memory  lingers 
The  look  of  tender,  tearful,  glad  sur 
prise 

That  brought  the  saint's  soul  to  the 
sinner's  eyes. 

Life  out  of  death  ;  it  seemed  to  me  as 

when 

The    anchor,    clutching,    holds     the 
driven  ship, 


1 84 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And  to  the  cry  scarce  formed  upon 

her  lip, 

"  Lord  God  be  praised  !  "  I  answered 
with  "Amen." 


LIFE'S  ROSES. 

WHEN  the  morning  first  uncloses, 
And  before  the  mists  are  gone, 

All  the  hills  seem  bright  with  roses, 
Just  a  little  farther  on  ! 

Roses  red  as  wings  cf  starlings, 

And  with  diamond  dew-drops  wet  ; 
"  Wait,"  says  Patience,  "  wait,  my  dar 
lings  — 

Wait  a  little  longer  yet !  " 
So,  with  eager,  upturned  faces, 

Wait  the  children  for  the  hours 
That  shall  bring  them  to  the  places 

Of  the  tantalizing  flowers. 

Wild  with  wonder,  sweet  with  guesses, 

Vexed  with  only  fleeting  fears  ; 
So  the  broader  day  advances, 

And  the  twilight  disappears. 
Hands  begin  to  clutch  at  posies, 

Eyes  to  flash  with  new  delight, 
And  the  roses,  oh  !  the  roses, 

Burning,  blushing  full  in  sight ! 

Now  with  bosoms  softly  beating, 

Heart  in  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Youths  and  maids  together  meeting 

Crowd  the  flowery  harvest  land. 
Not  a  thought  of  rainy  weather, 

Nor  of  thorns  to  sting  and  grieve, 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  gather. 

All  the  care  is  what  to  leave  ! 

Noon  to  afternoon  advances, 
Rosy  red  grows  russet  brown  ; 

Sad  eyes  turn  to  backward  glances, 
So  the  sun  of  youth  goes  down. 

And  as  rose  by  rose  is  withered, 

Sober  sight  begins  to  find 

Many   a  false   heart   has    been  gath 
ered, 

Many  a  true  one  left  behind. 
Hands  are  clasped  with  fainter   hold 
ing. 

Unfilled  souls  begin  to  sigh 
For  the  golden,  glad  unfolding 
Of  the  morn  beyond  the  sky. 


SECRET  WRITING. 

FROM  the  outward  world  about  us, 

From  the  hurry  and  the  din, 
Oh,  how  little  do  we  gather 

Of  the  other  world  within  ! 
For  the  brow  may  wear  upon  it 

All  the  seeming  of  repose 
When  the  brain  is  worn  and  weary, 

And  the  mind  oppressed  with  woes  : 
And  the  eye  may  shine  and  sparkle 

As  it  were  with  pleasure's  glow, 
When  't  is  only  just  the  flashing 

Of  the  fires  of  pain  below. 
And  the  tongue  may  have  the  sweetness 

That  doth  seem  of  bliss  a  part, 
When  't  is  only  just  the  tremble 

Of  the  weak  and  wounded  heart. 
Oh,  the  cheek  may  have  the  color 

Of  the  red  rose,  with  the  rest, 
When  't  is  only  just  the  hectic 

Of  the  dying  leaf,  at  best. 

But  when  the  hearth  is  kindled, 

And  the  house  is  hushed  at  night  — 
Ah,  then  the  secret  writing 

Of  the  spirit  comes  to  light  ! 
Through  the  mother's  light  caressing 

Of  the  baby  on  her  knee, 
We  see  the  mystic  writing 

That  she  does  not  know  we  see  — 
By  the  love-light  as  it  flashes 

In  her  tender-lidded  eyes, 
We  know  if  that  her  vision  rest 

On  earth,  or  in  the  skies  ; 
And  by  the  song  she  chooses, 

By  the  very  tune  she  sings, 
We  know  if  that  her  heart  be  set 
On  seen,  or  unseen  things. 

Oh,  when  the  hearth  is  kindled  — 

When  the  house  is  hushed  —  't  is  then 
We  see  the  hidden  springs  that  move 

The  open  deeds  of  men. 
As  the  father  turns  the  lesson 

For  the  boy  or  girl  to  learn, 
We  perceive  the  inner  letters 

That  he  knows  not  we  discern. 
For  either  by  the  deed  he  does, 

Or  that  he  leaves  undone, 
We  find  and  trace  the  channels 

Where  his  thoughts  and  feelings  run. 
And  often  as  the  unconscious  act, 

Or  smile,  or  word  we  scan, 
Our  hearts  revoke  the  judgments 

We  have  passed  upon  the  man. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


I85 


Sometimes  we  find  that  he  who  says 

The  least  about  his  faith, 
Has  steadfastness  and  sanctity 

To  suffer  unto  death  ; 
And  find  that  he  who  prays  aloud 

With  ostentatious  mien, 
Prays  only  to  be  heard  of  men, 

And  only  to  be  seen. 
For  when  the  hearth  is  kindled, 

And  the  house  is  hushed  at  night- 
Ah,  then  the  secret  writing 

Of  the  spirit  comes  to  light. 


DREAMS. 

OFTEN  I  sit  and  spend  my  hour, 

Linking   my   dreams  from  heart   to 
brain, 

And  as  the  child  joins  flower  to  flower, 
Then  breaks  and  joins  them  on  again, 

Casting  the  bright  ones  in  disgrace, 
And  weaving  pale  ones  in  their  stead, 

Changing  the  honors  and  the  place 
Of  white  and  scarlet,  blue  and  red  ; 

And  finding  after  all  his  pains 
Of  sorting  and  selecting  dyes, 

No  single  chain  of  all  the  chains 
The  fond  caprice  that  satisfies  ; 

So  I  from, all  things  bright  and  brave, 
Select  what  brightest,  bravest  seems, 

And,  with  the  utmost  skill  I  have, 
Contrive  the  fashion  of  my  dreams. 

Sometimes  ambitious  thoughts  abound, 
And  then  I  draw  my  pattern  bold, 

And  have  my  shuttle  only  wound 

With    silken    threads   or  threads  of 
gold. 

Sometimes  my  heart  reproaches  me, 
And  mesh  from  cunning  mesh  I  pull, 

And  weave  in  sad  humility 

With  flaxen  threads    or   threads   of 
wool.' 

For  here  the  hue  too  brightly  gleams, 
And  there  the  grain  too  dark  is  cast, 

And  so  no  dream  of  all  my  dreams 
Is  ever  finished,  first,  or  last. 

And  looking  back  upon  my  past 

Thronged   with    so   many  a  wasted 
hour, 


I  think  that  I  should  fear  to  cast 
My  fortunes  if  I  had  the  power. 

And  think  that  he  is  mainly  wise, 
Who  takes  what  comes  of  good  or  ill, 

Trusting  that  wisdom  underlies 

And  worketh  in  the  end  —  His  will. 


MY   POET. 

AH,  could  I  my  poet  only  draw 

In  lines  of  a  living  light, 
You  would  say  that  Shakespeare  never1 
saw 

In  his  dreams  a  fairer  sight. 

Along  the  bright  crisp  grass  where  by 

A  beautiful  water  lay, 
We  walked  —  my  fancies  and  I  — 

One  morn  in  the  early  May. 

And  there,  betwixt  the  water  sweet 
And  the  gay  and  grassy  land, 

I  found  the  print  of  two  little  feet 
Upon  the  silvery  sand. 

These  following,  and  following  on, 
Allured  by  the  place  and  time, 

I,  all  of  a  sudden,  came  upon 
This  poet  of  my  rhyme. 

Betwixt  my  hands  I  longed  to  take 
His  two  cheeks  brown  with  tan, 

To  kiss  him  for  my  true  love's  sake, 
And  call  him  a  little  man. 

A  rustic  of  the  rustics  he, 

By  every  look  and  sign, 
And  I  knew,  when  he  turned  his  face 
to  me, 

'T  was  his  spirit  made  him  fine. 

His  ignorance  he  had  sweetly  turned 

Into  uses  passing  words  : 
He  had  cut  a  pipe  of  corn,  and  learned 

Thereon  to  talk  to  the  birds. 

And  now  it  was  the  bluebird's  trill, 
Now  the  blackbird  on  the  thorn, 

Now  a  speckle-breast,  or  tawny-bill 
That  answered  his  pipe  of  corn, 

And  now,  though  he  turned  him  north 
and  south, 

And  called  upon  bird  by  bird, 
There  was  never  a  little  golden  mouth 

Would  answer  him  back  a  word. 


1 86 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


For  all,  from  the  red-bird  bold  and  gay, 
To  the  linnet  dull  and  plain, 

Had  fallen  on  beds  of  the  leafy  spray, 
To  listen  in  envious  pain. 

"  Ah,  do  as  you  like,  my  golden  quill ;  " 
So  he  said,  for  his  wise  share  ; 

"  And  the  same  to  you,  my  tawny-bill, 
There  are  pleasures  everywhere." 

Then  his  heart  fell  in  him  dancing  so, 
It  spun  to  his  cheek  the  red, 

As  he  spied  himself  in  the  wave  below 
A-standing  on  his  head. 

Ah,  could  I  but  this  picture  draw, 
Thus  glad  by  his  nature's  right, 

You  would  say  that  Shakespeare  never 

saw 
In  his  dreams  a  fairer  sight. 


WRITTEN   ON   THE    FOURTH    OF 
JULY,  1864. 

ONCE  more,  despite  the  noise  of  wars, 
And   the  smoke   gathering   fold   on 
fold, 

Our  daisies  set  their  stainless  stars 
Against  the  sunshine's  cloth  of  gold. 

Lord,  make  us  feel,  if  so  thou  will, 
The  blessings  crowning  us  to-day, 

And  the  yet  greater  blessing  still, 
Of  blessings  thou  hast  taken  away. 

Unworthy  of  the  favors  lent, 

We  fell  into  apostasy  ; 
And  lo  !  our  country's  chastisement 
.  Has  brought  her  to  herself,  and  thee  ! 

Nearer  by  all  this  grief  than  when 
She  dared  her  weak  ones  to  oppress, 

And  played  away  her  States  to  men 
Who  scorned  her  for  her  foolishness. 

Oh,  bless  for  us  this  holiday, 

Men  keep  like  children  loose  from 

school, 
And  put  it  in  their  hearts,  we  pray, 

To  choose  them  rulers  fit  to  rule. 

Good   men,  who  shall  their   country's 
pride 

And  honor  to  their  own  prefer  ; 
Her  sinews  to  their  hearts  so  tied 

That  they  can  only  live  through  her. 


Men  sturdy  —  of  discerning  eyes, 
And  souls  to  apprehend  the  right ; 

Not  with  their  little  light  so  wise 
They  set  themselves  against  thy  light. 

Men  of  small  reverence  for  names, 
Courageous,  and  of  fortitude 

To  put  aside  the  narrow  aims 
Of  factor,  for  the  public  good. 

Men  loving  justice  for  the  race, 

Not  for  the  great  ones,  and  the  few, 

Less  studious  of  outward  grace 

Than  careful  to  be  clean  all  through. 

Men  holding  state,  not  self,  the  first, 
Ready  when  all  the  deep  is  tossed 

With    storms,  and   worst   is    come    to 

worst, 
To  save  the  Ship  at  any  cost. 

Men  upright,  and  of  steady  knees, 
That  only  to  the  truth  will  bow  ; 

Lord,  help  us  choose  such  men  as  these, 
For  only  such  can  save  us  now. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

FOULLY   ASSASSINATED,    APRIL,   1865.  —  IN 
SCRIBED    TO   PUNCH. 

No   glittering    chaplet    brought    from 

other  lands  ! 
As  in  his  life,  this  man,  in  death,  is 

ours  ; 
His  own  loved  prairies  o'er  his  "gaunt 

gnarled  hands  " 

Have  fitly  drawn  their  sheet  of  sum 
mer  flowers  ! 

What   need   hath   he   now  of  a  tardy 

crown, 
His    name   from    mocking    jest   and 

sneer  to  save  ? 

When  every  ploughman  turns  his  fur 
row  down 

As  soft  as  though  it  fell  upon  his 
grave. 

He   was  a  man  whose  like  the  world 

again 
Shall  never  see,  t6  vex  with  blame  or 

praise  ; 
The  landmarks  that  attest  his  bright, 

brief  reign 

Are  battles,  not  the  pomps  of  gala- 
days  ! 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


87 


The  grandest  leader  of  the  grandest 

war 
That   ever   time    in   history  gave   a 

place  ; 

What  were  the  tinsel  flattery  of  a  star 
To  such  a  breast  !  or  what  a  ribbon's 

grace  ! 

'Tis  to  th'  7nan,  and  th'  man's  honest 

worth, 
The    nation's    loyalty   in   tears    up- 

springs  ; 
Through  him  the  soil  of  labor  shines 

henceforth 

High   o'er  the   silken  broideries  of 
kings. 

The  mechanism  of  external  forms  — 
The  shrifts   that  courtiers  put  their 

bodies  through, 
Were  alien  ways  to  him  —  his  brawny 

arms 
Had  other  work  than  posturing  to  do  ! 

Born  of  the   people,  well  he  knew  to 

grasp 
The  wants  and  wishes  of  the  weak 

and  small ; 
Therefore  we  hold  him  with  no  shadowy 

clasp  — 

Therefore  his  name  is  household  to 
us  all. 

Therefore    we    love    him   with  a    love 

apart 

From  any  fawning  love  of  pedigree  — 
His  was  the  royal  soul  and  mind  and 

heart  — 

Not  the  poor  outward  shows  of  roy 
alty. 

Forgive  us  then,  O  friends,  if  we  are 

slow 
To    meet   your    recognition    of    his 

worth  — 
We  're  jealous  of  the  very  tears  that 

flow 

From  eyes  that  never  loved  a  humble 
hearth. 


SAVED. 

No  tears  for  him  !  his  light  was   not 

your  light ; 

From  earth  to  heaven  his  spirit  went 
and  came, 


Seeing,  where   ye  but  saw  the  blank, 

black  night, 

The  golden  breaking  of  the  day  of 
fame. 

Faded  by  the  diviner  life,  and  worn, 
Dust  has  returned  to  dust,  and  what 

ye  see 
Is  but  the  ruined  house  wherein  were 

borne 
The  birth-pangs  of  his  immortality. 

Hither  and  thither  drifting  drearily, 

The  glory  of  serener  worlds  he  won, 
As  some  strange  shifting  column  of  the 

sea 

Catches  the  steadfast  splendor  of  the 
sun. 

What  was  your  shallow  love  ?  or  what 

the  gleam 
Of  smiles  that  chance  and  accident 

could  chill, 
To  him  whose  soul  could  make  its  mate 

a  dream, 

And  wander  through  the  universe  at 
will  ? 

When  your  weak  hearts  to  stormy  pas 
sion  woke, 
His  from  its  loftier  bent  was  only 

stirred, 
As  is  the   broad   green  bosom  of  the 

oak 

By  the  light  flutter  of  the  summer 
bird. 

His  joys,  in  realms  forbidden  to  you,  he 

sought, 

And  bodiless  servitors,  at  his  com 
mands, 
Hovered  about  the  watchfires   of  his 

thought 
On  the  dim  borders  of  poetic  lands. 

The  times  he  lived  in,  like  a  hard,  dark 

wall, 
He   grandly  painted  with   his  woes 

and  wrongs  — 
Come   nearer,   friends,   and    see    how 

brightly  all 
Is   joined   with   silvery   mortises    of 


Weep  for  yourselves  bereft,  but  not  for 

him  ; 

Wrong  reaches  to  the  compensating 
right, 


i88 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    CARY. 


And  clouds  that  make  the  day  of  genius 

dim, 
Shine  at  the  sunset  with  eternal  light. 


SPENT  AND  MISSPENT. 

STAY  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky, 

O  golden  color  of  the  evening  sun  ! 
Let  not  the  sweet  day  in  its  sweetness 

die, 

While    my   day's  work   is   only  just 
begun. 

Counting   the   happy   chances   strewn 

about 
Thick  as  the  leaves,  and  saying  which 

was  best, 
The   rosy  lights  of   morning   all   went 

out, 

And  it  was  burning  noon,  and  time  to 
rest. 

Then  leaning  low  upon  a  piece  of  shade, 
Fringed  round  with  violets  and  pan- 

sies  sweet, 

My  heart  and  I,  I  said,  will  be  delayed, 
And  plan  our  work  while  cools  the 
sultry  heat. 

Deep  in  the  hills,  and  out  of  silence 

vast, 

A  waterfall  played  up  his  silver  tune  ; 
My  plans  lost  purpose,  fell  to  dreams  at 

last, 
And  held  me  late  into  the  afternoon. 

But  when  the  idle  pleasure  ceased  to 

please, 
And  I  awoke,  and   not   a   plan  was 

planned, 
Just   as  a  drowning   man  at  what   he 

sees 

Catches  for  life,  I  caught  the  thing 
at  hand. 

And  so  life's  little  work-day  hour  has 

all 

Been  spent  and  misspent  doing  what 
I  could, 


And  in  regrets  and  efforts  to  recall 
The  chance  of  having,  being,  what  I 
would. 

And  so  sometimes  I  cannot  choose  but 

cry, 
Seeing    my    late-sown    flowers    are 

hardly  set  — 

O  darkening  color  of  the  evening  sky, 
Spare  me  the  day  a  little  longer  yet  ! 


LAST  AND  BEST. 

SOMETIMES,  when  rude,  cold  shadows 
run 

Across  whatever  light  I  see  ; 
When  all  the  work  that  I  have  done, 

Or  can  do,  seems  but  vanity  ; 

I  strive,  nor  vainly  strive,  to  get 

Some  little  heart's  ease  from  the  day 

When  all  the  weariness  and  fret 
Shall  vanish  from  my  life  away  ; 

For  I,  with  grandeur  clothed  upon, 
Shall  lie  in  state  and  take  my  rest, 

And  all  my  household,  strangers  grown, 
Shall  hold  me  for  an  honored  guest. 

But  ere  that  day  when  all  is  set 
In  order,  very  still  and  grand, 

And  while  my  feet  are  lingering  yet 
Along  this  troubled  border-land, 

What  things  will  be  the  first  to  fade, 
And  down  to  utter  darkness  sink  ? 

The  treasures  that  my  hands  have  laid 
Where  moth  and  rust  corrupt,  I  think. 

And  Love  will  be  the  last  to  wait 
And   light  my  gloom  with   gracious 
gleams  ; 

For  Love  lies  nearer  heaven's  glad  gate, 
Than  all  imagination  dreams. 

Aye,  when  my  soul  its  mask  shall  drop, 
The  twain  to  be  no  more  at  one, 

Love,  with  its  prayers,  shall  bear  me  up 
Beyond  the  lark's  wings,  and  the  sun. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE   AND   HOME. 


IF  AND  IF. 

IF  I  were  a  painter,  I  could  paint 

The  dwarfed  and  straggling  wood, 
And  the  hill-side  where  the    meeting 
house 

With  the  wooden  belfry  stood, 
A  dozen  steps  from  the  door,  —  alone, 
On  four  square   pillars   of  rough  gray 
stone. 

We  school-boys  used  to  write  our  names 

With  our  finger-tips  each  day 
In  th' dust  o'  th'  cross-beams,  —  once 

it  shone, 

I  hive  heard  the  old  folks  say, 
(Praising   the    time   past,  as  old  folks 

will,) 
Like  a  pillar  o'  fire  on  the  side  o'  th'  hill. 

I  could  paint  the  lonesome  lime-kilns, 
And     the     lime-burners,    wild     and 

proud, 
Their    red     sleeves    gleaming    in  the 

smoke 

Like  a  rainbow  in  a  cloud,  — 
Their  huts    by  the   brook,    and   their 

mimicking  crew — 
Making  believe  to  be  lime-burners  too  ! 

I  could  paint  the  brawny  wood-cutter, 

With  the  patches  at  his  knees,  — 
He  's  been  asleep  these  twenty  years, 

Among  his  friends,  the  trees  : 
The  day  that  he  died,  the  best  oak  o' 

the  wood 

Came   up    by  the  roots,   and   he   lies 
where  it  stood. 

I    could   paint  the  blacksmith's  dingy 

shop,  — 
Its  sign,  a  pillar  of  smoke  ; 


The  farm-horse  halt,  the  rough-haired 

colt, 

And  the  jade  with  her  neck  in  a  yoke  ; 
The  pony  that  made  to  himself  a  law, 
And  would  n't  go  under  the  saddle,  nor 
draw  ! 

The  poor  old  mare  at  the  door-post, 
With  joints  as  stiff  as  its  pegs,  — 
Her  one    white    eye,    and    her    neck 

awry,  — 

Trembling  the  flies  from  her  legs, 
And  the  thriftless  farmer  that  used  to 

stand 
And  curry  her  ribs  with  a  kindly  hand. 

I  could  paint  his  quaint  old-fashioned 

house, 

With  its  windows,  square  and  small, 
And  the  seams  of  clay  running  every 
way 

Between  the  stones  o'  the  wall : 
The  roof,  with  furrows  of  mosses  green, 
And  new  bright  shingles  set  between. 

The  oven,  bulging  big  behind, 
And  the  narrow  porch  before, 

And  the  weather-cock  for  ornament 
On  the  pole  beside  the  door  ; 

And    th'    row   of    milk-pans,    shining 
bright 

As  silver,  in  the  summer  light. 

And  I  could  paint  his  girls  and  boys, 

Each  and  every  one, 
Hepzibah    sweet,  with    her  little   bare 

feet, 

And  Shubal,  the  stalwart  son, 
And  wife  and  mother,  with  homespun 

gown, 

And   roses    beginning    to   shade    into 
brown. 


1 90 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


I    could    paint    the    garden,    with    its 

paths 

Cut  smooth,  and  running  straight,  — 
The  gray  sage  bed,  the  poppies  red, 
And  the  lady-grass  at  the  gate,  — 
The  black  warped  slab  with  its  hive  of 

bees, 
In  the  corner,  under  the  apple-trees. 

I  could  paint  the  fields,  in  the  middle 

hush 

Of  winter,  bleak  and  bare, 
Some  snow  like  a  lamb  that  is  caught 

in  a  bush, 

Hanging  here  and  there,  — 
The  mildewed  haystacks,  all  a-lop, 
And  the  old  dead  stub  with  the  crow 
at  the  top. 

The  cow,  with  a  board  across  her  eyes, 

And  her  udder  dry  as  dust, 
Her  hide  so   brown,  her  horn    turned 
down, 

And  her  nose  the  color  of  rust,  — 
The  walnut-tree  so  stiff  and  high, 
With  its  black  bark  twisted  all  awry. 

The  hill-side,  and  the  small  space  set 
With  broken  palings  round,  — 

The   long  loose   grass,    and  the  little 

grave 
With  the  head-stone  on  the  ground, 

And  the  willow,  like  the  spirit  of  grace 

Bending  tenderly  over  the  place. 

The    miller's    face,    half    smile,    half 

frown, 

Were  a  picture  I  could  paint, 
And    the    mill,    with    gable    steep   and 

brown, 

And  dripping  wheel  aslant,  — 
The  weather-beaten  door,  set  wide, 
And    the    heaps    of    meal-bags    either 
side. 

The  timbers  cracked  to  gaping  seams, 

The  swallows'  clay-built  nests, 
And  the  rows  of  doves  that  sit  on  the 

beams 

With  plump  and  glossy  breasts,  — 
The  bear  by  his  post  sitting  upright  to 

eat, 

With   half   of   his  clumsy  legs    in    his 
feet. 

I    could   paint  the   mill-stream,  cut  in 

two 
By  the  heat  o'  the  summer  skies, 


And  the  sand-bar,  with  its  long  brown 

back, 

And  round  and  bubbly  eyes, 
And  the  bridge,  that  hung  so  high  o'er 

the  tide, 
Creaking  and    swinging   from   side    to 

side. 

The  miller's  pretty  little  wife, 
In  the  cottage  that  she  loves,  — 

Her    hand    so  white,  and  her  step  so 

light, 
And  her  eyes  as  brown  as  th'  dove's, 

Her  tiny  waist,  and  belt  of  blue, 

And  her  hair  that  almost  dazzles  you. 

I  could  paint  the  WThite-Hawk  tavern, 

flanked 

With  broken  and  wind-warped  sheds, 
And  the  rock  where  the  black  clouds 

used  to  sit, 

And  trim  their  watery  heads 
With  little  sprinkles  of  shining  light, 
Night  and  morning,  morning  and  night. 

The  road,  where  slow  and  wearily, 

The  dusty  teamster  came,  — 
The  sign  on  its  post  and   the    round- 
faced  host, 

And  the  high  arched  door,  aflame 
With      trumpet-flowers,  —  the      well- 
sweep,  high, 

And   the   flowing   water-trough,    close 
by. 

If  I  were  a  painter,  and  if  my  hand 

Were  cunning,  as  it  is  not, 
I  could  paint  you  a  picture  that  would 

stand 

When  all  the  rest  were  forgot ; 
But  why  should  I  tell  you  what  it  would 

be  ? 
I  never  shall  paint  it,  nor  you  ever  see. 


AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE. 

OH,  good  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes    of    things    that    you   never 
saw  ? 

Aye  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  corn  fields,  a  little  brown,  — 
The    picture    must     not     be     over- 
bright,  — 

Yet  all  in   the  golden  and  gracious 
light 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURK  AND  HOME. 


Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is 

down. 

Alvvay  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon   woods,  with   fields  of 

corn 
Lying   between    them,    not    quite 

sere, 

And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breath 
ing-room 

Under  their  tassels,  —cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And   a   hedge    of   sumach  and    sassa 
fras, 

With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,    good    painter,    you    can't    paint 

"sound  !  )  — 
These,  and  the  house  where  I  was 

born, 

Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old. 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide,  — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush  : 

Perhaps    you  may  have    seen,  some 

day, 

Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 
With  woods    and  corn    fields  and 

f  razing  herds, 
y,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon  you  must  paint  for 

me  : 

Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 
The    clear    blue    eyes,    the    tender 

smile, 
The   sovereign   sweetness,  the   gentle 

grace, 
The    woman's   soul,    and    the   angel's 

face 
That   are    beaming    on   me   all   the 

while, 
I    need    not   speak   these   foolish 

words  : 
Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would 

say,  - 

She  is  my  mother  :  you  will  agree 
That    all   the   rest   may  be   thrown 
away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 

You  must  paint,  sir  :  one  like  me,  — 

The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise  : 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea, — 


God     knoweth     if     he    be    living 

now, — 

He    sailed    in   the   good   ship  Com 
modore^ 

Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came 

back. 

Ah,  it  is  twenty  long  years  and  more 

Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With    my   great-hearted   brother  .on 

her  deck  : 
I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a 

speck, 
And   his   face  was  toward  me  all  the 

way. 

Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 
The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's 

knee  : 

That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea  ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 
We  were  together,  half  afraid 
Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of 

the  shade 
Of   the    high    hills,   stretching   so 

still  and  far,  — 

Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 
Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open 

door, 

And  over  the  hay-stack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble  and  ready  to  drop, 

The     first     half-hour,    the     great 

yellow  star, 

That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 
Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the 

skies 

By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry-trefc, 
Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax- 
field  grew,  — 

Dead  at  the  top,  —  just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched   round,   and   lined 

with  wool, 
From  which    it  tenderly   shook    the 

clew 

Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  hand-breadth  of  shadow,  day  aftef 

day. 
Afraid 'to   go  home,  sir;  for  one  ol 

us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled 

eggs,  — 
The   other,   a  bird,  held   fast   by  the 

legs, 

Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  would  n't 
eat, 


192 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her 

bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 
Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 
You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  ? 
If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 
To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me  : 

I    think    't  was   solely   mine,    in 
deed  : 

But  that 's  no  matter,  — paint  it  so  ; 
The   eyes   of  our   mother  —  (take 

good  heed) — 

Looking  not  on  the  nestful  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by 

the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down  to 

our  lies, 

And,  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproach 
ful  surprise  ! 
I   felt   my  heart  bleed   where    that 

glance  went,  as  though 
A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know 

That  you   on   the    canvas   are    to   re 
peat 
Things    that   are   fairest,  things  most 

sweet,  — 

Woods  and  corn  fields  and  mulberry- 
tree,  — 
The    mother, — the    lads,    with    their 

bird,  at  her  knee  : 
But,   oh,    that    look   of   reproachful 

woe  ! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I  '11 

shout, 

If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave 
that  out. 


THE  SUMMER  STORM. 

AT  noon-time  I  stood  in  the  door-way 
to  see 

The  spots,  burnt  like  blisters,  as  white 
as  could  be, 

Along  the  near  meadow,  shoved  in  like 
a  wedge 

Betwixt  the  high-road,  and  the  stubble- 
land's  edge. 

The  leaves  of  the  elm-tree  were  dusty 

and  brown, 
The  birds  sat  with  shut  eyes  and  wings 

hanging  down, 


The  corn  reached  its  blades  out,  as  if 

in  the  pain 
Of  crisping  and  scorching  it  felt  for  the 

rain. 

Their   meek  faces  turning  away  from 

the  sun, 
The  cows  waded  up  to  their  flanks  in 

the  run, 
The    sheep,    so    herd-loving,    divided 

their  flocks, 
And  singly  lay  down  by  the  sides  of 

the  rocks. 

At  sunset  there  rose  and  stood  black 

in  the  east 
A  cloud  with  the  forehead  and  horns  of 

a  beast, 
That  quick  to  the  zenith  went  higher 

and  higher, 
With  feet  that  were  thunder  and  eyes 

that  were  fire. 

Then  came  a  hot  sough,  like  a  gust  of 

his  breath, 
And  the  leaves  took  the  tremble  and 

whiteness  of  death,  — 
The  dog,  to  his   master,  from  kennel 

and  kin, 
Came  whining  and  shaking,  with  back 

crouching  in. 

At  twilight  the  darkness  was  fearful  to 

see  : 
"  Make  room,"  cried  the  children,  "  O 

mother,  for  me  !  " 
As  climbing  her  chair  and  her  lap,  with 

alarm, 
And  whisper,  —  "  Was  ever  there  seen 

such  a  storm  !  " 

At  morning,  the  run  where  the  cows 

cooled  their  flanks 
Had  washed  up  a  hedge  of  white  roots 

from  its  banks  ; 
The  turnpike  was  left  a  blue  streak, 

and  each  side 
The  gutters  like  rivers  ran  muddy  and 

wide. 

The  barefooted  lad  started   merry  to 

school, 
And  the  way  was  the  nearest  that  led 

through  the  pool ; 
The  red-bird  wore  never  so  shining  a 

coat, 
Nor  the  pigeon  so  glossy  a  ring  on  her 

throat. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


193 


The  teamster  sat  straight  in  his  place, 

for  the  nonce, 
And  sang  to  his  sweetheart  and  team, 

both  at  once  ; 
And    neighbors   shook  hands  o'er  the 

fences  that  clay, 
And  talked  of  their  homesteads  instead 

of  their  hay. 


THE  SPECIAL  DARLING. 

ALONG  the  grassy  lane  one  day, 

Outside  the  dull  old-fashioned  town, 

A  dozen  children  were  at  play  ; 
From  noontide  till  the  even-fall, 

Curly-heads    flaxen    and     curly-heads 
brown 

Were  busily  bobbing  up  and  down 
Behind  the  blackberry  wall. 

And  near  these  merry-makers  wild 
A  piteous  little  creature  was, 

With  face  unlike  the  face  of  a  child,  — 
Eyes  fixed,  and  seeming  frozen  still, 

And  legs  all  doubled  up  in  th'  grass, 
Disjointed  from  his  will. 

No  dream  deceived  his  dreary  hours, 
Nor  made  him  merry  nor  made  him 
grave  ; 

He  did  not  hear  the  children  call, 

Tumbling  under  the  blackberry-wall, 
With  shoulders  white  with  flowers  ; 

But  sat  with  great  wide  eyes  one  way, 

And  body  limberly  a-sway, 
Like  a  water-plant  in  a  wave. 

He  did  not  hear  the  little  stir 

The  ants  made,  working  in  their  hills, 
Nor  see  the  pale,  gray -daffodils 

Lifting  about  him  their  dull  points, 
Nor  yet  the  curious  grasshopper 

Transport  his  green  and  angular  joints 
From   bush    to   bush.     Poor  simple 
boy,  — 

His  senses  cheated  of  their  birth, 

He  might  as  well  have  grown  in  th' 

earth, 
For  all  he  knew  of  joy. 

Near  where   the   children   took    their 

fill 

Of  play,  outside  the  dull  old  town, 
And  neighbored  by  a  wide-flanked  hill, 
Where  mists  like  phantoms  up  and 
down 

13 


Moved  all  the  time,  a  homestead  was, 

With  window  toward  the  plot  of  grass 
Where    sat   this    child,    and    oft    and 

again 
Tender    eyes    peered    through    the 

pane, 
Whose  glances  still  were  dim, 

Till   leaping   un/ler  the    blackberry- 
wall, 

Curly-heads  flaxen,  brown  and  all, 
They  rested  at  last  on  him. 

Ah,  who  shall  say  but  that  such  love 
Is  the  type  of  His  who  made  us  all, 

And  that  from  the  Kingdom  up  above 
The  eyes  that  note  the  sparrow's  fall, 
O'er  the  incapable,  weak  and  small, 

Watch  with  tenderest  care  : 

Such  is  my  hope  and  prayer. 


A   DREAM    OF   HOME. 

SUNSET  !  a  hush  is  on  the  air, 

Their  gray  old  heads   the    mountains 

bare, 
As  if  the  winds  were  saying  prayer. 

The   woodland,  with  its  broad,  green 

wing, 

Shuts  close  the  insect  whispering, 
And  lo  !  the  sea  gets  up  to  sing. 

The  day's  last  splendor  fades  and  dies, 
And  shadows  one  by  one  arise, 
To  light  the  candles  of  the  skies. 

O  wild  flowers,  wet  with  tearful  dew, 

0  woods,      with      starlight     shining 

through  ! 
My  heart  is  back  to-night  with  you  I 

1  know  each  beech  and  maple  tree, 
Each  climbing  brier  and  shrub  I  see,  — 
Like  friends  they  stand  to  welcome  me. 

Musing,  I  go  along  the  streams, 
Sweetly  believing  in  my  dreams  ; 
For  Fancy  like  a  prophet  seems. 

Footsteps  beside  me  tread  the  sod 
As  in  the  twilights  gone  they  trod  ; 
And  I  unlearn  my  doubts,  thank  God  ! 

Unlearn  my  doubts,  forget  my  fears, 
And  that  bad  carelessness  that  sears, 
And  makes  me  older  than  my  years. 


194 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


I  hear  a  dear,  familiar  tone, 

A  loving  hand  is  in  my  own, 

And  earth  seems  made  for  me  alone. 

If  I  my  fortunes  could  have  planned, 
I  would  not  have  let  go  that  hand  ; 
But  they  must  fall  who  learn  to  stand. 

And  how  to  blend  life's  varied  hues, 
What  ill  to  find,  what  good  to  lose, 
My  Father  knovveth  best  to  choose. 


EVENING   PASTIMES. 

SITTING  by  my  fire  alone, 
When  the  winds  are  rough  and  cold, 
And  I  feel  myself  grow  old 

Thinking  of  the  summers  flown, 

I  have  many  a  harmless  art 
To  beguile  the  tedious  time  : 
Sometimes  reading  some  old  rhyme 

I  already  know  by  heart ; 

Sometimes  singing  over  words 
Which  in  youth's  dear  day  gone  by 
Sounded  sweet,  so  sweet  that  I 

Had  no  praises  for  the  birds. 

Then,  from  off  its  secret  shelf 
I  from  dust  and  moth  remove 
The  old  garment  of  my  love, 

In  the  which  I  wrap  myself. 

And  a  little  while  am  vain ; 
But  its  rose  hue  will  not  bear 
The  sad  light  of  faded  hair  ; 

So  I  fold  it  up  again, 

More  in  patience  than  regret 
Not  a  leaf  the  forest  through 
But  is  sung  and  whispered  to. 

I  shall  wear  that  garment  yet. 


FADED  LEAVES. 

THE  hills  are  bright  with  maples  yet ; 

But  down  the  level  land 
The  beech  leaves  rustle  in  the  wind 

As  dry  and  brown  as  sand. 

The  clouds  in  bars  of  rusty  red 

Along  the  hill-tops  glow, 
And  in  the  still,  sharp  air,  the  frost 

Is  like  a  dream  of  snow. 


The  berries  of  the  brier-rose 
Have  lost  their  rounded  pride  : 

The  bitter-sweet  chrysanthemums 
Are  drooping  heavy-eyed. 

The  cricket  grows  more  friendly  now, 
The  dormouse  sly  and  wise, 

Hiding  away  in  the  disgrace 
Of  nature,  from  men's  eyes. 

The  pigeons  in  black  wavering  lines 
Are  swinging  toward  the  sun  ; 

And  all  the  wide  and  withered  fields 
Proclaim  the  summer  done. 

His  store  of  nuts  and  acorns  now 
The  squirrel  hastes  to  gain, 

And  sets  his  house  in  order  for 
The  winter's  dreary  reign. 

'T  is  time  to  light  the  evening  fire, 
To  read  good  books,  to  sing 

The  low  and  lovely  songs  that  breathe 
Of  the  eternal  spring. 


THE   LIGHT   OF   DAYS   GONE   BY. 

SOME  comfort  when  all  else  is  night, 

About  his  fortune  plays, 
Who  sets  his  dark  to-days  in  the  light 

Of  the  sunnier  yesterdays. 

In  memory  of  jo^  that 's  been 

Something  of  joy  is,  still  ; 
Where  no  dew  is,  we  may  dabble  in 

A  dream  of  the  dew  at  will. 

All  with  the  dusty  city's  throng 
Walled  round,  I  mused  to-day 

Of  flowery  sheets  lying  white  along 
The  pleasant  grass  of  the  way. 

Under  the  hedge  by  the  brawling  brook 
I  heard  the  woodpecker's  tap, 

And  the  drunken  trills  of  the  blackbirds 

shook 
The  sassafras  leaves  in  my  lap. 

I  thought  of  the  rainy  morning  air 
Dropping  down  through  the  pine, 

Of    furrows   fresh    from    the    shining 

share, 
And  smelling  sweeter  than  wine. 

Of  the  soft,  thick  moss,  and  how  it  grew 
With  silver  beads  impearled, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


I95 


In  the  w^ll  that  we  used  to  think  ran 

through 
To  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

I  thought  of  the  old  barn  set  about 
With  its  stacks  of  sweet,  dry  hay; 

Of  the  swallows  flying  in  and  out 
Through  the  gables,  steep  and  gray  ; 

Thought  of  the  golden  hum  of  the  bees, 
Of  the   cocks   with   their   heads    so 

high, 
Making  it    morn   in  the   tops   of  the 

trees 
Before  it  was  morn  in  the  sky. 

And  of  the  home,  of  the  dear  old  home, 
With  its  brown  and  rose-bound  wall, 

Where  we  fancied  death  could  never 

come  — 
I  thought  of  it  more  than  of  all. 

Each    childish    play-ground    memory 
claims, 

Telling  me  here,  and  thus, 
We  called  to  the  echoes  by  their  names, 

Till  we  made  them  answer  us. 

Thank  God,  when  other  power  decays, 

And  other  pleasures  die, 
We  still  may  set  our  dark  to-days 

In  the  light  of  days  gone  by. 


A   SEA   SONG. 

COME,  make  for  me  a  little  song  — 
'T  was  so  a  spirit  said  to  me  — 

And  make  it  just  four  verses  long, 
And  made  it  sweet  as  it  can  be, 
And  make  it  all  about  the  sea. 

Sing  me  about  the  wild  waste  shore, 
Where,  long  and  long  ago,  with  me 

You  watched  the  silver  sails  that  bore 
The    great,  strong  ships  across  the 

sea  — 
The  blue,  the  bright,  the  boundless 


Sing  me  about  the  plans  we  planned  : 
How  one  of  those  good  ships  should 
be 

My  way  to  find  some  flowery  land 
Away  beyond  the  misty  sea, 
Where,  alway,  you  should  live  with 


Sing,  lastly,  how  our  hearts  were  caught 
Up  into  heaven,  because  that  we 

Knew  not  the  flowery  land  we  sought 
Lay  all  beyond  that  other  sea  — 
That  soundless,  sailless,  solemn  sea. 


SERMONS   IN   STONES. 

FLOWER  of  the  deep  red  zone, 
Rain  the  fine  light  about  thee,  near  and 

far, 
Hold  the  wide  earth,  so  as  the  evening 

star 

Holdeth  all  heaven,  alone, 
And  with   thy   wondrous    glory   make 

men  see 
His  greater  glory  who  did  fashion  thee  ! 

Sing,  little  goldfinch,  sing  ! 
Make  the  rough  billows  lift  their  curly 

ears 
And  listen,   fill  the  violet's  eyes  with 

tears, 

Make  the  green  leaves  to  swing 
As   in   a  dance,  when  thou  dost   hie 

along, 
Showing    the  sweetness  whence  thou 

get'st  thy  song. 

O  daisies  of  the  hills, 

When  winds  do  pipe  to  charm  ye,  be 
not  slow. 

Crowd  up,  crowd  up,  and  make  your 

shoulders  show 
White  o'er  the  daffodils  ! 

Yea,  shadow  forth  through  your  excel 
ling  grace 

With  whom  ye  have  held  counsel  face 
to  face. 

Fill  full  our  desire, 

Gray  grasses  ;  trick  your  lowly  stems 
with  green, 

And  wear  your  splendors  even  as  a 

queen 
Weareth  her  soft  attire. 

Unfold    the    cunning   mystery   of    de 
sign 

That  combs  out  all  your  skirts  to  rib 
bons  fine. 

And  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 
Be  careful  to  go  strewing  in  and  out 
Thy  way  with  good  deeds,  lest  it  come 
about 

That  when  thou  shalt  depart, 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


No  low  lamenting  tongue  be  found  to 

say, 
The  world  is  poorer  since  thou  went'st 

away  ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  idly  beat, 

While    beauty    draweth    good    men's 

thoughts  to  prayer 
Even  as  the  bird's  wing  draweth  out 

the  air, 

But  make  so  fair  and  sweet 
Thy  house  of   clay,  some   dusk   shall 

spread  about, 
When  death  unlocks  the  door  and  lets 

thee  out. 


MY   PICTURE. 

AH,  how  the  eye  on  the  picture  stops 

Where  the  lights  of  memory  shine  ! 

My  friend,   to   thee    I  will   leave   the 

sea, 

If  only  this  be  mine, 
For  the  thought  of  the  breeze  in    the 

tops  of  the  trees 
Stirs  my  blood  like  wine  ! 

I  will   leave  the  sea  and  leave  the 

ships, 

And  the  light-house,  taper  and  tall, 
The  bar  so   low,  whence   the  fishers 

go, 

And  the  fishers'  wives  and  all, 
If  thou  wilt  agree  to  leave  to  me 
This  picture  for  my  wall. 

I  leave  thee  all  the  palaces, 

With  their  turrets  in  the  sky  — 
The  hunting-grounds,  the  hawks  and 

hounds  — 

They  please  nor  ear  nor  eye  ; 
But  the  sturdy  strokes  on  the  sides  o' 

the  oaks 
Make  my  pulses  fly. 

The  old  cathedral,  filling  all 

The  street  with  its  shadow  brown, 
The    organ    grand,    and  the    choiring 

band, 
And   the   priest   with    his    shaven 

crown  ; 

T  is  the  wail  of  the  hymn  in  the  wild- 
wood  dim, 
That  bends  and  bows  me  down. 

The  shepherd  piping  to  his  flock 
In  the  merry  month  of  the  May, 


The  lady  fair  with  the  golden  hair, 

And   the    knight    so  gallant   and 

gay  — 

For  the  wood  so  drear  that  is  pictured 

here, 
I  give  them  all  away. 

I  give  the  cities  and  give  the  sea, 

The  ships  and  the  bar  so  low, 
And  fishers  and  wives  whose  dreary 

lives 

Speak  from  the  canvas  so ; 
And  for  all  of  these  I  must  have   the 

trees  — 
The  trees  on  the  hills  of  snow  ! 

And  shall  we  be  agreed,  my  friend  ? 

Shall  it  stand  as  I  have  said  ? 
For  the  sake  of  the  shade  wherein   I 

played, 

And  for  the  sake  of  my  dead, 
That  lie  so  low  on  the  hills  of  snow, 
Shall  it  be  as  I  have  said  ? 


MORNING   IN   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

MORN  on  the  mountains  !    streaks  of 

roseate  light 
Up  the  high  east  athwart  the  shadows 

run  ; 
The  last  low  star  fades  softly  out  of 

sight, 

And  the  gray  mists  go  forth  to  meet 
the  sun. 

And  now  from  every  sheltering  shrub 

and  vine, 
And  thicket  wild  with  many  a  tangled 

spray, 

And  from  the  birch  and  elm  and  rough- 
browed  pine, 
The  birds  begin  to  serenade  the  day. 

And  now  the  cock  his  sleepy  harem 

thrills 
With    clarion    calls,    and    down    the 

flowery  dells  ; 
And  from  their  mossy  hollows   in  the 

hills  ; 

The  sheep  have  started  all  their  tink 
ling  bells. 

Lo,  the  great  sun  !  and  Nature  every 
where 

Is  all  alive,  and  sweet  as  she  can  be  ; 
A  thousand  happy  sounds  are  in  the  air, 

A  thousand  by  the  rivers  and  the  sea. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


197 


The  dipping  oar,  the  boatman's  cheer 
ful  horn, 
The  well-sweep,  creaking  in  its  rise 

and  fall  ; 
And   pleasantly   along    the    springing 

corn, 

The  music  of  the  ploughshare,  best 
of  all,  - 

The  insect's  little  hum,  the  whir  and 

beat 
Of  myriad  wings,  the  mower's  song 

so  blithe, 
The  patter  of  the  school-boy's  naked 

feet, 

The  joyous  ringing  of   the  whetted 
scythe,  — 

The  low  of  kine,  the  falling  meadow 

bar, 

The  teamster's  whistle  gay,  the  dron 
ing  round 
Of  the  wet  mill-wheel,  and  the  tuneful 

jar 

Of  hollow  milk-pans,  swell  the  gen 
eral  sound. 

And  by  the  sea,  and  in  each  vale  and 

glen 
Are  happy  sights,  as  well  as  sounds 

to  hear, 
The   world   of  things,  and    the   great 

world  of  men, 
All,  all  is  busy,  busy  far  and  near. 

The  ant  is  hard  at  work,  and  every 
where 
The  bee  is  balanced  on  her  wings  so 

brown  ; 
And  the  black  spicier  on  her  slender 

stair 

Is  running  down  and  up,  and  up  and 
down. 

The  pine-wood  smoke  in  bright,  fantas 
tic  curls, 
Above    the    low -roofed    homestead 

sweeps  away, 
And  o'er  the  groups  of  merry  boys  and 

girls 

That  pick  the  berries  bright,  or  rake  I 
the  hay. 

Morn  on  the  mountains  !  the  enkindling 

skies, 

The  flowery  fields,  the  meadows,  and 
the  sea, 


All  are  so  fair,  the  heart  within  me  cries, 
How  good,  how  wondrous  good  our 
God  must  be. 


THE   THISTLE   FLOWER. 

MY  homely  flower  that  blooms  along 

The  dry  and  dusty  ways, 
I  have  a  mind  to  make  a  song, 

And  make  it  in  thy  praise  ; 
For  thou  art  favored  of  my  heart, 
Humble  and  outcast  as  thou  art. 

Though  never  with  the  plants  of  grace 

In  garden  borders  set, 
Full  often  have  I  seen  thy  face 

With  tender  tear-drops  wet, 
And  seen  thy  gray  and  ragged  sleeves 
All   wringing  with   them,    morns   and 
eves. 

Albeit  thou  livest  in  a  bush 

Of  such  unsightly  form, 
Thou  hast  not  any  need  to  blush  — 

Thou  hast  thine  own  sweet  charm; 
And  for  that  charm  I  love  thee  so, 
And  not  for  any  outward  show. 

The  iron-weed,  so  straight  and  fine, 

Above  thy  head  may  rise, 
And  all  in  glossy  purple  shine  ; 

But  to  my  partial  eyes 
It  cannot  harm  thee  —  thou  hast  still 
A  place  no  finer  flower  can  fill. 

The  fennel,  she  is  courted  at 
The  porch-side  and  the  door  — 

Thou  hast  no  lovers,  and  for  that 
I  love  thee  all  the  more  ; 

Only  the  wind  and  rain  to  be 

Thy  friends,  and  keep  thee  company. 

So,  being  left  to  take  thine  ease 

Behind  thy  thorny  wall, 
Thy  little  head  with  vanities 

Has  not  been  turned  at  all, 
And  all  field  beauties  give  me  grace 
To  praise  thee  to  thy  very  face. 

So,  thou  shalt  evermore  belong 
To  me  from  this  sweet  hour, 

And  I  will  take  thee  for  my  song, 
And  take  thee  for  my  flower, 

And  by  the  great,  and  proud,  and  high 

Unenvied,  we  will  live  and  die. 


198 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


MY   DARLINGS. 

MY  Rose,  so  red  and  round, 
My    Daisy,    darling    of    the    summer 

weather, 
You    must  go   down   now,    and  keep 

house  together, 
Low  underground ! 

O  little  silver  line 
Of   meadow  water,  ere  the  cloud  rise 

darkling, 
Slip  out  of  sight,  and  with  your  comely 

sparkling 
Make  their  hearth  shine. 

Leaves  of  the  garden  bowers, 
The  frost  is  coming  soon,  —  your  prime 

is  over  ; 
So  gently  fall,  and  make  a  soft,  warm 

cover 
To  house  my  flowers. 

Lithe  willow,  too,  forego. 
The  crown  that  makes  you  queen  of 

woodland  graces, 
Nor  leave  the  winds  to  shear  the  lady 

tresses 
From  your  drooped  brow. 

Oak,  held  by  strength  apart 
From  all  the  trees,  stop  now  your  stems 

from  growing, 
And  send  the  sap,  while  yet 't  is  bravely 

flowing, 
Back  to  your  heart. 

And  ere  the  autumn  sleet 
Freeze  into  ice,  or  sift  to  bitter  snow 
ing* 
Make   compact   with   your    peers   for 

overstrowing 
My  darlings  sweet. 

So  when  their  sleepy  eyes 
Shall  be  unlocked  by  May  with  rainy 

kisses, 
They   to   the    sweet    renewal    of  .  old 

blisses 
Refreshed  may  rise. 

Lord,  in  that  evil  day 
When    my  own  wicked   thoughts    like 

thieves  waylay  me, 
Or  when    pricked  conscience  rises  up 

to  slay  me, 
Shield  me,  I  pray. 


Aye,  when  the  storm  shall  drive, 
Spread   thy   two   blessed    hands    like 

leaves  above  me, 
And  with  thy  great  love,  though  none 

else  should  love  me, 
Save  me  alive  ! 

Heal  with  thy  peace  my  strife  ; 
And  as  the  poet  with  his  golden  vers 
ing 
Lights    his    low   house,   give    me,    thy 

praise  rehearsing, 
To  light  my  life. 

Shed  down  thy  grace  in  showers, 
And  if  some  roots  of  good,  at  thy  ap 
pearing, 
Be  found  in  me,  transplant  them  for  the 

rearing 
Of  heavenly  flowers. 


THE  FIELD  SWEET-BRIER. 

I  LOVE  the  flowers   that   come   about 

with  spring, 

And  whether  they  be  scarlet,  white, 
or  blue, 

It  mattereth  to  me  not  anything  ; 
For  when  I  see  them  full  of  sun  and 
dew, 

My  heart  doth  get  so  full  with  its  de 
light, 

I  know  not  blue  from  red,  nor  red  from 
white. 

Sometimes  I  choose  the  lily,  without 

stain  ; 
The  royal  rose  sometimes  the  best  I 

call; 
Then  the  low  daisy,  dancing  with  the 

rajn, 
Doth  seem  to  me  the  finest  flower  of 

all; 
And  yet  if  only  one   could  bloom  for 

me  — 
I  know  right  well  what  flower  that  one 

would  be  ! 

Yea,    so    I   think    my    native    wilding 

brier, 
With  just  her  thin  four  leaves,  and 

stem  so  rough, 
Could,  with  her  sweetness,  give  me  my 

desire, 

Aye,  all  my  life  long  give  me  sweets 
enough  ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND   HOME. 


199 


For  though  she  be  not  vaunted  to  excel, 
She  in  all  modest  grace  aboundeth  well. 

And  I  would  have  no  whit  the  less  con 
tent, 

Because  she  hath  not  won  the  poet's 
voice, 

To  pluck  her  little  stars  for  ornament, 
And  that  no  man  were  poorer  for  my 
choice, 

Since  she   perforce  must  shine  above 
the  rest 

In  comely  looks,  because   I  love  her 
best! 

When  fancy  taketh  wing,  and  wills  to  go 
Where  all  selected  glories  blush  and 

bloom, 
I  search  and  find  the  flower  that  used 

to  grow 
Close  by  the  door-stone  of  the  dear 

old  home  — 
The  flower  whose  knitted  roots  we  did 

divide 
For  sad  transplanting,  when  the  mother 

died. 

Alt  of  the  early  and  the  latter  May, 
And  through  the  windless  heats  of 
middle  June, 

Our  green-armed  brier  held  for  us  day 

by  day, 

The  morning  coolness  till  the  after 
noon  ; 

And  every  bird  that  took  his  grateful 
share, 

Sang  with    a   heavenlier   tongue    than 
otherwhere. 

And  when  from  out  the  west  the  low 

sun  shone, 
It  used  to  make  our  pulses  leap  and 

thrill 
To  see  her  lift  her  shadows  from  the 

stone, 
And  push  it  in  among  us   o'er  the 

sill  — 
O'erstrow  with  flowers,  and  then  push 

softly  in, 
As  if  she  were  our  very  kith  and  kin. 

So,    seeing   still    at    evening's   golden 

close 

This  shadow  with  our  childish  shad 
ows  blend, 

We    came    to    love    our    simple    four- 
leaved  rose, 
As  if  she  were  a  sister  or  a  friend. 


And   if  my  eyes   all   flowers   but  one 

must  lose, 
Our  wild  sweet-brier  would  be  the  one 

to  choose. 


THE   LITTLE   HOUSE  ON   THE 
HILL. 

0  MEMORY,  be  sweet  to  me  — 
Take,  take  all  else  at  will, 

So  thou  but  leave  me  safe  and  sound, 
Without  a  token  my  heart  to  wound, 
The  little  house  on  the  hill ! 

Take  all  of  best  from  east  to  west, 

So  thou  but  leave  me  still 
The    chamber,    where    in    the    starry 
light 

1  used  to  lie  awake  at  night 
And  list  to  the  whip-poor-will. 

Take  violet-bed,  and  rose-tree  red, 
And  the  purple  flags  by  the  mill, 

The    meadow  gay,    and    the    garden- 
ground, 

But  leave,  oh  leave  me  safe  and  sound 
The  little  house  on  the  hill  ! 

The  daisy-lane,    and    the    dove's   low 

plain 

And  the  cuckoo's  tender  bill, 
Take  one  and  all,  but  leave  the  dreams 
That    turned     the    rafters    to    golden 

beams, 
In  the  little  house  on  the  hill  ! 

The  gables  brown,  they  have  tumbled 

down, 

And  dry  is  the  brook  by  the  mill  ; 
The  sheets  I  used  with  care  to  keep 
Have  wrapt  my  dead  for  the  last  long 

sleep, 
In  the  valley,  low  and  still. 

But,  Memory,  be  sweet  to  me, 
And  build  the  walls,  at  will, 
Of  the  chamber  where  I  used  to  mark, 
So  softly  rippling  over  the  dark, 
The  song  of  the  whip-poor-will  ! 

Ah,  Memory,  be  sweet  to  me  ! 

All  other 'fountains  chill; 
But  leave  that  song  so  weird  and  wild, 
Dear   as   its  life   to  the  heart   of   the 
child, 

In  the  little  house  on  the  hill  ! 


200 


THE  POEMS  OF   ALICE   GARY. 


THE  OLD    HOUSE. 

MY  little  birds,  with  backs  as  brown 
As    sand,  and    throats    as   white    as 

frost, 
I  've    searched    the   summer    up    and 

down, 

And  think  the  other  birds  have  lost 
The  tunes  you  sang,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
About  the  old  house,  long  ago. 

My  little  flowers,  that  with  your  bloom 
So  hid  the  grass  you  grew  upon, 

A  child's  foot  scarce  had  any  room 
Between   you,  —  are    you    dead    and 


gone 


* 


I  've  searched  through  fields  and  gar 
dens  rare, 
Nor  found  your  likeness  anywhere. 

My  little  hearts,  that  beat  so  high 
With  love  to  God,  and  trust  in  men, 

Oh,  come  to  me,  and  say  if  I 

But  dream,  or  was  I  dreaming  then, 

What  time  we  sat  within  the  glow 

Of  the  old  house  hearth,  long  ago  ? 

My  little  hearts,  so  fond,  so  true, 
I    searched    the   world    all   far  and 

wide, 
And  never  found  the  like  of  you : 

God  grant  we  meet  the  other  side 
The     darkness    'twixt     us    now    that 

stands, 

In    that    new   house    not    made   with 
hands  ! 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

"  I  could  not  think  so  plain  a  bird 
Could  sing  so  fine  a  song." 

ONE  on  another  against  the  wall 

Pile  up  the  books,  —  I  am  done  with 

them  all  ! 

I  shall  be  wise,  if  I  ever  am  wise, 
Out  of  my  own  ears,  and  of  my  own 

eyes. 

One  day  of  the  woods  and  their  balmy 

light,  - 

One  hour  on  the  top  of  a  breezy  hill, 
Where  in  the  sassafras  all  out  of  sight 
The  blackbird  is  splitting  his  slen 
der  bill 
For  the  ease  of  his  heart  ! 


Do  you  think  ir  he  said 

I  will  sing  like  this  bird  with  the  mud- 
colored  back 

And  the  two  little  spots  of  gold  over 
his  eyes, 

Or  like  to  this  shy  little  creature  that 
flies 

So  low  to  the  ground,  with    the  ame 
thyst  rings 

About    her    small    throat,  —  all   alive 
when  she  sings 

With    a   glitter  of  shivering  green, — 
for  the  rest, 

Gray  shading  to  gray,  with  the  sheen 
of  her  breast 

Half  rose  and  half  fawn,  — 

Or  like  this  one  so  proud, 

That  flutters  so  restless,  and  cries  out 
so  loud, 

With  stiff  horny  beak  and  a  topknotted 
head, 

And  a  lining  of  scarlet  laid  under  his 
wings,  — 

Do    you     think,    if    he    said,    "  I  'm 
ashamed  to  be  black  !  " 

That  he  could  have  shaken  the  sassa 
fras-tree 

As  he  does  with  the  song  he  was  born 
to  ?  not  he  ! 


CRADLE  SONG. 

ALL  by  the  sides  of  the  wide  wild  river 

Surging  sad  through  the  sodden  land, 
There  be  the  black  reeds  washing  to 
gether  — 

Washing  together  in  rain  and  sand  ; 
Going,  blowing,  flowing,  together  — 

Rough  are  the  winds,  and  the   tide 

runs  high  — 
Hush  little  babe  in  thy  silken  cradle  — 

Lull  lull,  lull  lull,  lull  lullaby  ! 

Father  is  riding  home,  little  baby, 
Riding  home  through  the  wind  and 

rain  ; 

Flinty  hoofs  on  the  flag  stems  beating 
Thrum    like    a   flail   on   the    golden 

grain. 

All  in  the  wild,  wet  reeds  of  the  low 
lands, 
Dashed  and  plashed  with  the  freezing 

foam, 
There  be  the  blood-red  wings   of  the 

starlings 
Shining  to  light  and  lead  him  home. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


201 


Spurring     hard    o'er     the    grass-gray 

ridges  — 

Slacking  rein  in  the  low,  wet  land, 
Where  be  the  black  reeds  washing  to 
gether  — 

Washing  together  in  rain  and  sand. 
Down  of  the  yellow-throated  creeper  — 
Plumes  of  the  woodcock,  green  and 

black  - 

Boughs  of  salix,  and  combs  of  honey  — 
These  be  the  gifts  he  is  bearing  back. 

Yester  morning  four    sweet    ground- 
doves 
Sung    so  gay   to  their    nest  in    the 

wall  — 
Oh,   by  the  moaning,  and   oh,  by  the 

droning, 

The  wild,  wild  water  is  over  them  all ! 

Come,  O  morning,  come  with  thy  roses, 

Flame   like   a   burning   bush  in  the 

sky  — 

Hush,  little  babe,  in  thy  silken  cradle  — 
Lull  lull,  lull  lull,  lull  lullaby  ! 


GOING  TO  COURT. 

THE  farm-lad  quarried  from  the  mow 
The  golden  bundles,  hastily, 

And,  giving  oxen,  colt,  and  cow 

Their  separate  portions,  he  was  free. 

Then,  emptying  all  the  sweet  delight 
Of  his  young  heart  into  his  eyes, 

As  if  he  might  not  go  that  night, 
He  lingered,  looking  at  the  skies. 

The  evening's  silver  plough  had  gone 
Through    twilight's  bank   of    yellow 
haze, 

And  turned  two  little  stars  thereon  — 
Still  artfully  he  stayed  to  praise 

The  hedge-row's  bloom  —  the  trickling 
run  — 

The  crooked  lane,  and  valley  low  — 
Each  pleasant  walk,  indeed,  save  one, 

And  that  the  way  he  meant  to  go  ! 

In  truth,  for  Nature's  simple  shows 
He  had  no  thoughts  that    night,  to 
spare, 

In  vain  to  please  his  eyes,  the  rose 
Climbed  redly  out  upon  the  air. 

The  bean-flower,  in  her  white  attire 
Displayed  in  vain  her  modest  charms, 


And  apple-blossoms,  all  on  fire, 
Fell  uninvited  in  his  arms. 

When  Annie  raked  the  summer  hay 
Last  year,  a  little  thorn  he  drew 

Out  of  her  white  hand,  such  a  way, 
It  pierced  his  heart  all  through  and 
through. 

Poor  farmer-lad  !  could  he  that  night 
Have  seen  how  fortune's  leaves  were 
writ, 

His  eyes  had  emptied  all  their  light 
Back  to  his  heart,  and  broken  it. 


ON  THE  SEA. 

I  WILL  call  her  when  she  comes  to  me 

My  lily,  and  not  my  wife, 
So  whitely  and  so  tenderly 

She  was  set  in  my  stormy  life. 

In  vain  her  gentle  eyes  to  please 
The  year  had  done  her  best, 

Setting  her  tides  of  crocuses 
All  softly  toward  the  west : 

The  bright  west,  where  our  love  was 

born 

And  grew  to  perfect  bloom, 
And  where   the   broad    leaves   of  the 

corn 
Hang  low  about  her  tomb. 

I  hid  from  men  my  cruel  wound 
And  sailed  away  on  the  sea, 

But    like    waves    around    some    hulk 

aground 
Her  love  enfoldeth  me- 

My   clumsy  hands    are    cracked    and 
brown ; 

My  chin  is  rough  as  a  bur, 
But  under  the  dry  husk  soft  as  down 

Lieth  my  love  for  her. 

One    night   when    storms   were  in  the 

sky- 

,  Sailing  away  on  the  sea, 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  doomed  to  die, 
And  that  she  came  to  me. 

They  bound  my  eyes,  but  I  had  sight 
And  saw  her  take  that  hour 

My  head  so  bright  in  her  apron  white 
As  if  it  had  been  a  flower  ! 


202 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


No  child  when  I  sit  alone  at  night 
Comes  climbing  on  my  knee, 

But   I   dream  of  love  and  my  heart  is 

light 
As  I  sail  away  on  the  sea. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

IT  was  a  sandy  level  wherein  stood 
The  old  and  lonesome  house  ;  far  as 

the  eye 
Could  measure,  on  the  green  back  of 

the  wood, 
The  smoke  lay  always,  low  and  lazily. 

Down  the  high  gable  windows,  all  one 

way, 
Hung  the  long,  drowsy  curtains,  and 

across 
The  sunken   shingles,  where  the  rain 

would  stay, 

The     roof    was     ridged,    a     hand's 
breadth  deep,  with  moss. 

The  place  was   all  so  still  you  would 

have  said 
The  picture  of  the  Summer,  drawn, 

should  be 
With  golden   ears,   laid   back   against 

her  head, 
And  listening  to  the  far,  low-lying  sea. 

But  from  the  rock,  rough-grained  and 

icy-crowned, 
Some   little   flower  from    out   some 

cleft  will  rise  ; 

And  in  this  quiet  land  my  love  I  found, 
With  all  their  soft    light,  sleepy,  in 
her  eyes. 

No  bush  to  lure  a  bird  to  sing  to  her  — 
In  depths  of  calm  the  gnats'  faint 
hum  was  drowned, 

And  the  wind's  voice  was  like  a  little  stir 
Of  the  uneasy  silence,  not  like  sound. 

No  tender  trembles  of  the  dew  at  close 

Of  day,  — at  morn,  no  insect  choir  ; 
No  sweet  bees  at  sweet  work  about  the 

rose, 

Like   little    housewife   fairies    round 
their  fire. 

And  yet  the  place,  suffused  with  her, 

seemed  fair  — 

Ah,   I  would    be    immortal,  could    I 
write 


How  from  her  forehead  fell  the  shining 

hair, 
As  morning  falls  from  heaven  —  so 


bright  !  so  bright. 


SHADOWS. 

WHEN  I  see  the  long  wild  briers 
Waving  in  the  winds  like  fires, 

See  the  green  skirts  of  the  maples 
Barred  with  scarlet  and  with  gold, 
See  the  sunflower,  heavy-hearted, 
Shadows  then  from  days  departed 

Come  and  with  their  tender  trembles 
Wrap  my  bosom,  fold  on  fold. 

I  can  hear  sweet  invitations 
Through  the  sobbing,  sad  vibrations 

Of  the  winds  that  follow,  follow, 
As  from  self  I  seek  to  fly  — 
Come  up  hither  !  come  up  hither  ! 
Leave  the  rough  and  rainy  weather  ! 

Come  up  where  the  royal  roses 
Never  fade  and  never  die  ! 

'T  was  when  May  was  blushing,  bloom 
ing, 

Brown   bee,   bluebirds,    singing,    hum 
ming, 

That  we  built  and  walled  our  cham 
ber 

With  the  emerald  of  leaves  ; 

Made  our  bed  of  yellow  mosses, 

Soft  as  pile  of  silken  flosses, 

Dreamed  our  dreams  in  dewy  bright 
ness 

Radiant  like  the  morns  and  eves. 

And  it  was  when  woods  were  gleaming, 
And  when  clouds  were  wildly  stream 
ing 

Gray  and  umber,  white  and  ember, 
Streaming  in  the  north  wind's  breath, 
That  my  little  rose-mouthed  blossom 
Fell  and  faded  on  my  bosom, 

Cankered  by  the  coming  coldness, 
Blighted  by  the  frosts  of  death. 

Therefore,  when  I  see  the  shadows, 
Drifting  in  across  the  meadows, 

See  the  troops  of  summer  wild  birds 
Flying  from  us,  cloud  on  cloud, 
Memory  with  that  May-time  lingers, 
And  I  seem  to  feel  the  fingers 

Of  my  lost  and  lovely  darling 
Wrap  my  heart  up  in  her  shroud. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


203 


APRIL. 

THE  wild  and  windy  March  once  more 
Has  shut  his  gates  of  sleet, 

And  given  us  back  the  April-time, 
So  fickle  and  so  sweet. 

Now    blighting  with    our    fears,    our 

hopes  — 

Now  kindling  hopes  with  fears  — 
Now     softly     weeping      through     her 

smiles  — 
Now  smiling  through  her  tears. 

Ah,  month  that  comes  with  rainbows 
crowned, 

And  golden  shadows  dressed  — 
Constant  to  her  inconstancy, 

And  faithful  to  unrest." 

The   swallows    'round   the   homestead 
eaves  — 

The  bluebirds  in  the  bowers 
Twitter  their  sweet  songs  for  thy  sake, 

Gay  mother  of  the  flowers. 

The  brooks  that  moaned  but  yester 
day 

Through  bunches  of  dead  grass, 
Climb   up   their    banks    with    dimpled 

hands, 
And  watch  to  see  thee  pass. 

The  willow,  for  thy  grace's  sake, 
Has  dressed  with  tender  spray, 

And  all  the  rivers  send  their  mists 
To  meet  thee  on  the  way. 

The  morning  sets  her  rosy  clouds 

Like  hedges  in  the  sky, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  their  clear  old  tunes 

The  winds  of  evening  try. 

Before  another  week  has  gone, 
Each  bush,  and  shrub,  and  tree, 

Will  be  as  full  of  buds  and  leaves 
As  ever  it  can  be. 

I  welcome  thee  with  all  my  heart, 

Glad  herald  of  the  spring, 
And  yet  I  cannot  choose  but  think 

Of  all  thou  dost  not  bring. 

The  violet  opes  her  eyes  beneath 
The  dew-fall  and  the  rain  — 

But  oh,  the  tender,  drooping  lids 
That  open  not  again  ! 


Thou  set'sts  the  red  familiar  rose 
Beside  the  household  door, 

But  oh,  the  friends,  the  sweet,  sweet 

friends 
Thou  bringest  back  no  more  ! 

But  shall  I  mourn  that  thou  no  more 
A  short-lived  joy  can  bring, 

Since  death  has  lifted  up  the  gates 
Of  their  eternal  spring  ? 


POPPIES. 

O  LADIES,  softly  fair, 

Who  curl  and  comb  your  hair, 

And  deck  your  dainty  bodies,  eve  and 

morn, 

With  pearls,  and  flowery  spray, 
And  knots  of  ribbons  gay, 

As  if  ye  were  for  idlesse  only  born  : 
Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 

But  foolish  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

Whose  lives  but  parts  repeat  — 
Whose  little  dancing  feet 
Swim  lightly  as  the  silverly  mists  of 

morn : 

Whose  pretty  palms  unclose 
Like  some  fresh  dewy  rose, 
For  dainty  dalliance,  not   for   distaffs 

born  ; 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 
But  flaunting  poppies   in   among   the 
corn  ! 

O  women,  sad  of  face, 
Whose  crowns  of  girlish  grace 
Sin  has  plucked  off,  and  left  ye  all  for 
lorn  — 

Whose  pleasures  do  not  please  — 
Whose    hearts    have    no   hearts'- 

ease  — 
Whose    seeming    honor   is    of    honor 

shorn : 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  one  and  all, 
But  painted  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

Women,  to  name  whose  name 

All  good  men  blush  for  shame, 

And  bad  men  even,  with  the  speech  of 

scorn  ; 

Who  have  nor  sacred  sight 
For  Vesta's  lamps  so  white, 


204 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


Nor  hearing  for  old  Triton's  wreathed 

horn : 

Oh,  hark  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  one  and  all, 

But  poison  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

Women,  who  will  not  cease- 
From  toil,  nor  be  at  peace 
Either  at  purple  eve  or  yellowing  morn, 
But  drive  with  pitiless  hand, 
Your    ploughshares    through    the 

land 

Quick  with  the  lives  of  daisies  yet  un 
born  : 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 
But   troublous    poppies  in  among  the 
corn  ! 

Blighting  with  fretful  looks 
The  tender-tasseled  stocks  — 
Sweeping  your  wide-floored  barns  with 

sighs  forlorn 
About  the  unfilled  grains 
And  starving  hunger-pains 
That  on   the  morrow,  haply,  shall  be 

borne : 

Oh,  hark  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 
But    forward    poppies    in   among    the 
corn  ! 

O  virgins,  whose  pure  eyes 

Hold  commerce  with  the  skies  — 
Whose  lives  lament  that  ever  ye  were 
born  ; 

The  cross  whose  joy  to  wear 
Never  the  rose,  but  only  just  the  thorn  : 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 

What  are  ye,  after  all, 
Better  than  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

What  better  ?  who  abuse 

The  gifts  wise  women  use, 
With  locks  sheared   off,  and   bosoms 
scourged  and  torn  ; 

Lapping  your  veils  so  white 

Betwixt  ye  and  the  light, 
Composed  in  heaven's  sweet  cisterns, 
morn  by  morn  : 

Oh,  hark  to  Wisdom's  call  — 

What  are  ye,  after  all 
Better  than  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

O  women,  rare  and  fine, 
Whose  mouths  are  red  with  wine 
Of  kisses  of  your  children,  night  and 
morn, 


Whose  ways  are  virtue's  ways  — 
Whose     good     works     are     your 

praise  — 
Whose  hearts  hold  nothing  God  has 

made  in  scorn  : 
Though  Fame  may  never  call 
Your  names,  ye  are,  for  all, 
The  Ruths  that  stand  breast-high  amid 
the  corn  ! 

Your  steadfast  love  and  sure 
Makes  all  beside  it  poor  ; 
Your  cares  like  royal  ornaments    are 

worn  ; 

Wise  women  !  what  so  sweet, 
So  queenly,  so  complete 
To  name  ye   by,  since  ever  one   was 

born  ? 

Since  she,  whom  poets  call, 
The  sweetest  of  you  all, 
First  gleaned  with  Boaz  in  among  the 
corn. 


A  SEA  SONG. 

NOR    far    nor    near    grew    shrub  nor 

tree, 

The  bare  hills  stood  up  bleak  behind, 
And  in  between  the  marsh  weeds  gray 
Some  tawny-colored  sand-drift  lay, 
Opening  a  pathway  to  the  sea, 
The  which  I  took  to  please  my  mind. 

In  full  sight  of  the  open  seas 
A  patch  of  flowers  I  chance  to  find, 
As  if  the  May,  being  thereabout, 
Had  from  her  apron  spilled  them  out  ; 
And  there  I  lay  and  took  my  ease, 
And  made  a  song  to  please  my  mind. 

Sweet  bed !    if    you   should    live   full 

long, 

A  sweeter  you  will  never  find  — 
Some  flowers  were  red,  and  some  were 

white  ; 

And  in  their  low  and  tender  light 
I  meditated  on  my  song, 
Fitting  the  words  to  please  my  mind. 

Some    sea-waves    on    the    sands    up- 
thrown, 

And  left  there  by  the  wanton  wind, 
With'  lips  all  curled  in  homesick  pain 
For  the  old  mother's  arms  again, 
Moved  me,  and  to  their  piteous  moan 
I  set  the  tune  to  please  my  mind. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME, 


2O5 


But  now  I  would  in  very  truth 
The  flowers  I  had  not  chanced  to  find, 
Nor  lain  their  speckled  leaves  along, 
Nor  set  to  that  sad  tune  my  song  ; 
For   that    which    pleased   my  careless 

youth 
It  faileth  now  to  please  my  mind. 

And  this  thing  I  do  know  for  true, 
A  truer  you  will  never  find, 
No  false  step  e'er  so  lightly  rung 
But  that  some  echo  giving  tongue 
Did  like  a  hound  all  steps  pursue, 
Until  the  world  was  left  behind. 


WINTER  AND  SUMMER. 

THE    winter    goes    and    the    summer 

comes, 
And    the    cloud   descends    in  warm, 

wet  showers  ; 
The  grass  grows  green  where  the  frost 

has  been, 

And  waste  and  wayside  are  fringed 
with  flowers. 

The    winter    goes    and    the    summer 

comes, 
And  the  merry  bluebirds  twitter  and 

trill, 

And  the  swallow  swings  on  his  steel- 
blue  wings, 

This  way  and   that  way,  at  wildest 
will. 

The    winter    goes    and    the    summer 

comes, 
And    the    swallow   he    swingeth    no 

more  aloft, 
And  the  bluebird's  breast  swells  out  of 

her  nest, 

And    the    horniest   bill   of  them   all 
grows  soft. 

The    summer    goes    and    the    winter 

comes, 
And  the  daisy  dies  and  the  daffodil 

dies, 
And  the  softest  bill  grows  horny  and 

still, 

And  the  days  set  dimly  and    dimly 
rise. 

The    summer    goes     and    the    winter 

comes 

And   the    red   fire   fades    from    the 
heart  o'  th'  rose, 


And   the   snow   lies  white   where   the 

grass  was  bright, 

And  the  wild  wind  bitterly  blows  and 
blows. 

The    winter    comes    and    the    winter 

stays, 
Aye,   cold   and  long  and  long  and 

cold, 

And  the  pulses  beat  to  the  weary  feet, 
And   the    head   feels   sick  and   the 
heart  grows  cold. 

The    winter    comes    and    the    winter 

stays, 

And  all  the  glory  behind  us  lies, 
The  cheery  light  drops  into  the  night, 
And  the  snow  drifts  over  our  sight 
less  eyes. 


AUTUMN. 

SHORTER  and  shorter  now  the  twilight 

clips 
The   days,   as    through    the    sunset 

gates  they  crowd, 
And   Summer  from   her  golden  collar 

slips 

And   strays   through    stubble-fields, 
and  moans  aloud, 

Save  when  by  fits  the  warmer  air  de 
ceives, 

And,  stealing  hopeful  to  some  shel 
tered  bower, 
She    lies    on    pillows    of    the    yellow 

leaves, 

And  tries  the  old  tunes  over  for  an 
hour. 

The  wind,  whose  tender  whisper  in  the 

May 
Set  all   the  young  blooms  listening 

through  th'  grove, 

Sits  rustling  in  the  faded   boughs  to 
day 

And  makes  his  cold  and  unsuccess 
ful  love. 

The   rose   has   taken   off   her   tire   of 

red  — 
The    mullein-stalk   its    yellow   stars 

have  lost, 
And   the    proud    meadow-pink    hangs 

down  her  head 

Against  earth's  chilly  bosom,  witched 
with  frost. 


2O6 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY, 


The  robin,  that  was  busy  all  the  June, 
Before  the  sun  had  kissed  the  top 
most  bough, 
Catching  our  hearts  up  in  his  golden 

tune, 

Has  given  place  to  the  brown  cricket 
now. 

The    very   cock   crows    lonesomely   at 

morn  — 
Each    flag   and   fern    the    shrinking 

stream  divides  — 

Uneasy  cattle  low,  and  lambs  forlorn 
Creep   to  their    strawy  sheds   with 
nettled  sides. 

Shut  up  the  door  :  who  loves  me  must 

not  look 
Upon  the  withered  world,  but  haste 

to  bring 

His  lighted  candle,  and  his  story-book, 
And   live    with    me    the    poetry  of 
spring. 


DAMARIS. 

You   know  th'  forks  of   th'  road,  and 

th'  brown  mill  ? 
And  how  th'  mill-stream,  where  th' 

three  elms  grow, 

Flattens  its  curly  head  and  slips  be 
low 

That   shelf  of  rocks   which  juts  from 
out  th'  hill  ? 

You  know  th'  field  of   sandstone,  red 

and  gray, 
Sloped  to  th'  south  ?  and  where  th' 

sign-post  stands, 
Silently    lifting    up    its    two    black 

hands 

To    point   th'  uneasy   traveler   on   his 
way  ? 

You  must  remember  the  long  rippling 

ridge 

Of  rye,  that  cut  the  level  land  in  two, 
And   changed   from    blue    to   green, 

from  green  to  blue, 

Summer  after  summer  ?     And  th'  one- 
arched  bridge, 

Under  the  which,  with  joy  surpassing 

words, 

We  stole  to  see  beneath  the  speckled 
breast 


Of    th'   wild   mother,   all    the   clay- 
built  nest 

Set  round  with  shining  heads  of  little 
birds. 

Well,  midway  'twixt  th'  rye-ridge  and 

th'  mill, 
In  the  old  house  with  windows  to  the 

morn, 
The   village    beauty,    Daman's,   was 

born  — 

There  lives,  in  "maiden  meditation," 
still. 

Stop    you  and   mark,  if  you  that  way 

should  pass, 

The  old,  familiar  quince  and  apple- 
trees, 
Chafing  against  the  wall  with  every 

breeze, 

And  at  the  door  the  flag-stones,  set  in 
grass. 

There  is  the  sunflower,  with  her  starry 

face 
Leaned  to  her  love  ;  and  there,  with 

pride  elate, 

The  prince's-feather  —  at  th'  garden- 
gate 

The  green-haired  plants,  all   gracious 
in  their  place. 

You'll    think   you   have    not   been    an 

hour  away  — 
Seeing   the    stones,    th'  flowers,  the 

knotty  trees, 
And   'twixt   the    palings,    strings   of 

yellow  bees, 

Shining    like    streaks    of    light  —  but, 
welladay  ! 

If    Damaris    happen    at    the    modest 

door, 
In  gown  of  silver  gray  and  cap  of 

snow  — 
Your     May-day    sweetheart,      forty 

years  ago  — 

The    brief    delusion    can    delude    no 
more. 


A  LESSON. 

WOODLAND,  green  and  gay  with  dew. 
Here,  to-day,  I  pledge  anew 
All  the  love  I  gave  to  you 

When  my  heart  was  young  and  glad, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND   HOME. 


207 


And  in  dress  of  homespun  plaid, 
Bright  as  any  flower  you  had, 

Through  your  bushy  ways  I  trod, 
Or,  lay  hushed  upon  your  sod 
With  my  silence  praising  God. 

Never  sighing  for  the  town  — 

Never  giving'back  a  frown 

To  the  sun  that  kissed  me  brown. 

When  my  hopes  were  of  such  stuff, 
That  my  days,  though  crude  enough, 
Were  with  golden  gladness  rough  — 

Timid  creatures  of  the  air  — 
Little  ground-mice,  shy  and  fair  - 
You  were  friendly  with  me  there. 

Beeches  gray,  and  solemn  firs, 
Thickets  full  of  bees  and  burs, 
You  were  then  my  school-masters, 

Teaching  me  as  best  you  could, 

How  the  evil  by  the  good  — 

Thorns  by  flowers  must  be  construed. 

Rivulets  of  silvery  sound, 
Searching  close,  I  always  found 
Fretting  over  stony  ground. 

And  in  hollows,  cold  and  wet, 

Violets  purpled  into  jet 

As  if  bad  blood  had  been  let  ; 

While  in  every  sunny  place, 
Each  one  wore  upon  her  face 
Looks  of  true  and  tender  grace. 

Leaning  from  the  hedge-row  wall, 
Gave  the  rose  her  sweets  to  all, 
Like  a  royal  prodigal. 

And  the  lily,  priestly  white, 
Made  a  little  saintly  light 
In  her  chapel  out  of  sight. 

Heedless  how  the  spider  spun  — 
Heedless  of  the  brook  that  run 
Boldly  winking  at  the  sun. 

When  the  autumn  clouds  did  pack 

Hue  on  hue,  unto  that  black 

That 's  bluish,  like  a  serpent's  back, 

Emptying  all  their  cisterns  out, 
While  the  winds  in  fear  and  doubt 
Whirled  like  dervises  about, 


And  the  mushroom,  brown  and  dry, 
On  the  meadow's  face  did  lie, 
Shrunken  like  an  evil  eye  — 

Shrunken  all  its  fleshy  skin, 
Like  a  lid  that  wrinkles  in 
Where  an  eyeball  once  had  been. 

How  my  soul  within  me  cried, 

As  along  the  woodland  side 

All  the  flowers  fell  sick  and  died. 

But  when  Spring  returned,  she  said, 
"  They  were  sleeping,  and  not  dead  — 
Thus  must  light  and  darkness  wed." 

Since  that  lesson,  even  death 
Lies  upon  the  glass  of  faith, 
Like  the  dimness  of  a  breath. 


KATRINA   ON   THE   PORCH. 

A    BIT    OF    TURNER    PUT    INTO    WORDS. 

AN  old,  old  house  by  the  side  of  the 

sea, 
And    never  a  picture    poet    would 

paint  ; 
But    I    hold   the   woman   above  the 

saint, 
And  the  light  of  the  hearth  is  more  to 

me 
Than  shimmer  of  air-built  castle. 

It    fits    as   it  grew  to   the   landscape 

there  — 

One  hardly  feels  as  he  stands  aloof 
Where  the  sandstone  ends,  and  the 

red  slate  roof 

Juts  over  the  window,  low  and  square, 
That  looks  on  the  wild  sea-water. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  so  green  and 

high 

There  slopeth  a  level  of  golden  moss, 
That  bars  of  scarlet  and  amber  cross, 

And  rolling  out  to  the  farther  sky 
Is  the  world  of  wild  sea-water. 

Some   starved   grape-vineyards   round 

about  — 

A  zigzag  road  cut  deep  with  ruts  — 
A  little  cluster  of  fisher's  huts, 
And  the  black  sand  scalloping  in  and 

out 

'Twixt    th'    land    and    th'    wild    sea- 
water. 


208 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Gray  fragments  of  some  border  tow 
ers, 

Flat,  pellmell  on  a  circling  mound, 
With  a  furrow  deeply  worn  all  round 
By  the   feet  of  children    through    the 

flowers, 
And  all  by  the  wild  sea-water. 

And  there,  from  the  silvery  break  o'  th' 

day 
Till  the  evening  purple  drops  to  the 

land, 
She  sits  with  her  cheek  like  a  rose  in 

her  hand, 
And   her   sad    and   wistful    eyes    one 

way — 
The  way  of  the  wild  sea-water. 

And  there,  from  night  till  the  yellowing 

morn 
Falls  over  the  huts  and  th'  scallops 

of  sand  — 
A  tangle  of  curls  like  a  torch  in  her 

hand  — 
She   sits   and   maketh    her    moan    so 

lorn, 
With  the  moan  of  the  wild  sea-water. 

Only  a  study  for  homely  eyes, 

And    never  a  picture    poet    would 

paint ; 
But   I    hold   the   woman  above  the 

saint, 
And  the  light  of  the  humblest  hearth  I 

prize 
O'er  the  luminous  air-built  castle. 


THE   WEST   COUNTRY. 

HAVE  you  been  in  our  wild  west  coun 
try  ?  then 

You  have  often  had  to  pass 
Its  cabins  lying  like  birds'  nests  in 

The  wild  green  prairie  grass. 

Have  you  seen  the  women  forget  their 
wheels 

As  they  sat  at  the  door  to  spin  — 
Have  you  seen  the  darning  fall  away 

From  their  fingers  worn  and  thin, 

As    they  asked   you  news  of   the  vil 
lages 

Where  they  were  used  to  be, 
Gay  girls  at  work  in  the  factories 

With  their  lovers  gone  to  sea  ! 


Ah,   have   you   thought   of    the   brav 
ery 

That  no  loud  praise  provokes  — 
Of  the  tragedies  acted  in  the  lives 

Of  poor,  hard-working  folks  ! 

Of    the    little    more,    and    the    little 
more 

Of  hardship  which  they  press 
Upon  their  own  tired  hands  to  make 

The  toil  for  the  children  less  : 

And  not  in  vain  ;  for  many  a  lad 
Born  to  rough  work  and  ways, 

Strips  off  his  ragged  coat,  and  makes 
Men  clothe  him  with  their  praise. 


THE   OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

WHEN   skies   are   growing  warm  and 
bright, 

And  in  the  woodland  bowers 
The    Spring-time    in    her    pale,    faint 
robes 

Is  calling  up  the  flowers, 
When  all  with  naked  little  feet 

The  children  in  the  morn 
Go  forth,  and  in  the  furrows  drop 

The  seeds  of  yellow  corn  ; 
What  a  beautiful  embodiment 

Of  ease  devoid  of  pride 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  its  doors  set  open  wide  ! 

But  when  the  happiest  time  is  come, 

That  to  the  year  belongs, 
When  all  the  vales  are  filled  with  gold 

And  all  the  air  with  songs  ; 
When  fields  of  yet  unripened  grain, 

And  yet  ungarnered  stores 
Remind  the  thrifty  husbandman 

Of  ampler  threshing-floors, 
How  pleasant,  from  the  din  and  dust 

Of  the  thoroughfare  aloof, 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  steep  and  mossy  roof  ! 

When  home  the  woodsman  plods  with 
axe 

Upon  his  shoulder  swung, 
And  in  the  knotted  apple-tree 

Are  scythe  and  sickle  hung  ; 
When  low  about  her  clay-built  nest 

The  mother  swallow  trills, 
And  decorously  slow,  the  cows 

Are  wending  down  the  hills  ; 


POEMS   OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


209 


What  a  blessed  picture  of  comfort 
In  the  evening  shadows  red, 

Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 
With  its  bounteous  table  spread  ! 

And  when  the  winds  moan  wildly, 

When  the  woods  are  bare  and  brown, 
And    when    the    swallow's    clay-built 
nest 

From  the  rafter  crumbles  down  ; 
When  all  the  untrod  garden-paths 

Are  heaped  with  frozen  leaves, 
And  icicles,  like  silver  spikes, 

Are  set  along  the  eaves  ; 
Then  when  the  book  from  the  shelf  is 
brought, 

And  the  fire-lights  shine  and  play, 
In  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

Is  the  farmer's  holiday  ! 

But   whether   the   brooks    be   fringed 

with  flowers, 

Or  whether  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  whether  the  air  be  full  of  songs, 

Or  never  a  song  at  all, 
And  whether   the  vines  of  the  straw 
berries 

Or  frosts  through  the  grasses  run, 
And   whether   it    rain    or  .whether    it 

shine 

Is  all  to  me  as  one, 
For  bright  as  brightest  sunshine 
The  light  of  memory  streams 
Round  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 
Where    I    dreamed    my    dream    of 
dreams  ! 


CONTRADICTION. 

I  LOVE  the  deep  quiet  —  all  buried  in 

leaves, 
To  sit  the  day  long  just  as  idle  as 

air, 
Till  the  spider  grows  tame  at  my  elbow, 

and  weaves, 

And  toadstools   come  up  in  a  row 
round  my  chair. 

I  love  the  new  furrows  —  the  cones  of 

the  pine, 
The    grasshopper's    chirp,    and   the 

hum  of  the  mote  ; 
And   short    pasture-grass    where    the 

clover-blooms  shine 
Like   red   buttons   set  on  a  holiday 
coat. 

'4 


Flocks    packed   in    the    hollows  —  the 

droning  of  bees, 
The   stubble   so  brittle  —  the  damp 

and  flat  fen  ; 
Old  homesteads  I  love,  in  their  clusters 

of  trees, 

And    children   and    books,   but  not 
women  nor  men. 

Yet,  strange  contradiction  !     I  live  in 

the  sound 
Of  a  sea-girdled  city —  'tis  thus  that 

it  fell, 
And  years,  oh,  how  many  !  have  gone 

since  I  bound 

A  sheaf  for  the  harvest,  or  drank  at 
a  well. 

And  if,  kindly  reader,  one  moment  you 

wait 
To  measure  the  poor  little  niche  that 

you  fill, 

I  think  you  will  own  it  is  custom  or  fate 
That  has  made  you  the  creature  you 
are,  not  your  will. 


MY  DREAM  OF  DREAMS. 

ALONE  within  my  house  I  sit ; 

The  lights  are  not  for  me, 
The  music,  nor  the  mirth  ;  and  yet 

I  lack  not  company. 

So  gayly  go  the  gay  to  meet, 
Nor  wait  my  griefs  to  mend  — 

My  entertainment  is  more  sweet 
Than  thine,  to-night,  my  friend. 

Whilst  thou,  one  blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Bewail'st  my  weary  hours, 
Upon  my  native  hills  I  stand 

Waist-deep  among  the  flowers. 

I  envy  not  a  joy  of  thine  ; 

For  while  I  sit  apart 
Soft  summer,  oh,  fond  friend  of  mine, 

Is  with  me  in  my  heart. 

Aye,    aye,    I  'm  young    to-night    once 
more  ; 

The  years  their  hold  have  loosed, 
And  on  the  dear  old  homestead  door 

I  'm  watching,  as  I  used, 

The  sunset  hang  its  scarlet  fringe 
Along  the  low  white  clouds, 


210 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


While,  radiant  with  their  tender  tinge, 
My  visions  come  in  crowds. 

The  doves  fly  homeward  over  me, 
The  red  rose  bravely  gleams, 

And  first  and  last  and  midst  I  see 
The  dream  of  all  my  dreams. 

I  need  not  say  what  dream  it  was, 
Nor  how  in  life's  lost  hours 

It  made  the  glory  of  the  grass 
The  splendor  of  the  flowers. 

I  need  not  wait  to  paint  its  glow 
With  rainbow  light  nor  sun  ; 

Who  ever  loved  that  did  not  know 
There  is  no  dream  but  one  ? 

My  frosty  locks  grow  bright  and  brown  ; 

My  step  is  light  once  more  ; 
The  world  now  dropping  darkly  down 

Comes  greenly  up  before. 

Comes  greenly  up  before  my  eyes, 
With  gracious  splendor  clad, 

That    world    which    now   behind    me 

lies 
So  darkly  dim,  so  sad. 

Shot  over  with  the  purpling  morn, 

I  see  the  long  mists  roll, 
And  hear  beneath  the  tasseled  corn 

The  winds  make  tender  dole. 

I  hear,  and  all  my  pulses  rouse 
And  give  back  trembling  thrills, 

The  farm-boy  calling  with  his  cows 
The  echoes  from  the  hills. 

So  soft  the  plashing  of  the  rain 
Upon  the  peach-tree  leaves, 

It  hardly  breaks  the  silvery  skein 
The  dark-browed  spider  weaves. 

The  grasshopper  so  faintly  cries 
Beneath  the  dock's  round  burs 

That  in  the  shadow  where  she  lies 
The  silence  scarcely  stirs. 

Bright  tangles  of  the  wings  of  birds 

Along  the  thickets  shine, 
But  oh,  how  poor  are  common  words 

To  tell  of  bliss  divine  ! 

So  let  thy  soft  tears  cease  to  fall, 
My  friend,  nor  longer  wait ; 

I  have  my  recompense  for  all 
Thou  pitiest  in  my  fate, 


The  joys  thou  hold'st  within  thy  glance 
Thou  canst  not  make  to  last  ; 

Mine  are  uplifted  to  romance  — 
Immortal,  changeless,  fast. 


When  pleasures  fly  too  far  aloof, 

Or  pain  too  sorely  crowds, 
I  go  and  sit  beneath  my  roof 

Of  golden  morning  clouds. 

There  back  to  life  my  dead  hope  starts, 
And  well  her  pledge  redeems, 

As  close  within  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  hug  my  dream  of  dreams. 

IN   THE   DARK. 

HAS  the  spring  come  back,  my  darling, 
Has  the  long  and  soaking  rain 
Been  moulded  into  the  tender  leaves 
Of  the  gay  and  growing  grain  — 
The   leaves   so   sweet   of    barley  and 

wheat 

All  moulded  out  of  the. rain  ? 
Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  grow, 
Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  blow, 
All  over  field  and  plain  — 
The  billows  sweet  of  barley  and  wheat 
All  moulded  out  of  the  rain. 

Are   the  flowers  dressed  out,  my  dar- 

ling> 

In  their  kerchiefs  plain  or  bright  — 
The  groundwort  gay,  and  the  lady  of 

May, 

In  her  petticoat  pink  and  white  ? 
The   fair  little  flowers,  the   rare  little 

flowers, 

Taking  and  making  the  light  ? 
Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  all, 
The  little  and  low,  the  proud  and  tall, 
In  their  kerchiefs  brave  and  bright, 
Stealing  out  of  the  morns  and  eves, 
To     braid     embroidery     round     their 

leaves, 
The  gold  and  scarlet  light. 

Have  the  birds  come  back,  my  darling, 

The  birds  from  over  the  sea  ? 

Are  they  cooing  and  courting  together 

In  bush  and  bower  and  tree  ? 

The    mad   little   birds,  the  glad   little 

birds, 

The  birds  from  over  the  sea ! 
Oh,  and  I  would    I   could  hear   them 

sing, 


rOEMS   OF  NATURE   AND   HOME. 


21 


Oh,  and    I   would    I    could   see   them 

swing 

In  the  top  of  our  garden  tree  ! 
The   mad   little   birds,  the   glad   little 

birds, 
The  birds  from  over  the  sea  ! 

Are  they  building  their  nests,  my  dar 
ling, 

In  the  stubble,  brittle  and  brown  ? 

Are  they  gathering  threads,  and  silken 
shreds, 

And  wisps  of  wool  and  down, 

With  their  silver  throats  and  speckled 
coats, 

And  eyes  so  bright  and  so  brown  ? 

Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  make 

And  line  their  nests  for  love's  sweet 
sake, 

With  shreds  of  wool  and  down, 

With  their  eyes  so  bright  and  brown  ! 


AN   INVALID'S    PLEA. 

O    SUMMER  !    my  beautiful,    beautiful 

summer  ! 
I  look  in  thy  face,  and  I  long  so  to 

live  ; 

But  ah  !  hast  thou  room  for  an  idle  new 
comer, 
With   all   things   to   take,  and  with 

nothing  to  give  ? 
With   all   things   to  take   of  thy  dear 

loving-kindness, 
The  wine  of  thy  sunshine,  the  dew  of 

thy  air  ; 

And  with  nothing  to  give  but  the  deaf 
ness  and  blindness 
Begot  in  the  depths  of  an  utter  de 
spair  ? 

As  if  the  gay  harvester  meant  but  to 

screen  her, 
The  black  spider  sits  in  her  low  loom, 

and  weaves : 
A  lesson  of  trust  to  the   tender-eyed 

gleaner 
That  bears  in  her  brown   arms  the 

gold  of  the  sheaves. 
The  blue-bird  that  trills  her  low  lay  in 

the  bushes 

Provokes   from   the  robin  a  merrier 
glee  ; 


The  rose  pays  the  sun  for  his  kiss  with 

her  blushes, 

And  all  things  pay  tithes  to  thee  — 
all  things  but  me. 

At  even,  the  fire-flies  trim  with  their 

glimmers 
The  wild,  weedy  skirts  of  the  field 

and  the  wood  ; 

At  morning,  those  dear  little  yellow- 
winged  swimmers, 
The  butterflies,  hasten  to  make  their 

place  good. 
The   violet,    always   so   white   and   so 

saintly ; 
The  cardinal,  warming  the  frost  with 

her  blaze  ; 

The  ant,  keeping  house  at  her   sand- 
hearth  so  quaintly 

Reproaches    my   idle    and   indolent 
ways. 

When  o'er  the  high  east  the  red  morn 
ing  is  breaking, 
And  driving  the  amber  of  starlight 

behind, 
The  land  of  enchantment  I  leave,  on 

awaking, 
Is  not  so  enchanted  as  that  which  I 

find. 
And  when  the  low  west  by  the  sunset 

is  flattered, 
And  locust  and  katydid  sing  up  their 

best, 
Peace  comes  to  my  thoughts,  that  were 

used  to  be  fluttered, 
Like   doves  when   an   eagle's    wing 
darkens  their  nest. 

The  green  little  grasshopper,  weak  as 

we  deem  her, 
Chirps,  day  in  and  out,  for  the  sweet 

right  to  live  ; 
And  canst  thou,  O  summer  !  make  room 

for  a  dreamer, 
With   all   things    to   take,  and  with 

nothing  to  give  ? 
Room  only  to  wrap  her  hot  cheeks  in 

thy  shadows, 
And  all  on  thy  daisy-fringed  pillows 

to  lie, 
And  dream  of  the  gates  of  the  glorious 

meadows, 

Where   never   a  rose   of  the   roses 
shall  die  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


THE   BRIDAL   VEIL. 

WE  'RE   married,   they   say,   and   you 

think  you  have  won  me,  — 
Well,  take  this  white  veil  from  my  head, 

and  look  on  me  ; 
Here  's  matter  to  vex  you,  and  matter 

to  grieve  you, 
Here  's  doubt  to  distrust  you,  and  faith 

to  believe  you,  — 
I  am  all  as   you   see,  common    earth, 

common  dew  ; 
Be  wary,  and  mould  me  to  roses,  not 

rue  ! 

Ah  !    shake   out   the   filmy  thing,  fold 

after  fold, 
And  see  if  you  have  me  to  keep  and  to 

hold,  — 
Look  close  on  my  heart  —  see  the  worst 

of  its  sinning,  — 
It  is  not  yours  to-day  for  the  yesterday's 

winning  — 
The  past  is  not  mine  —  I  am  too  proud 

to  borrow  — 
You  must  grow  to  new  heights  if  I  love 

you  to-morrow. 

We  're  married  !  I  'm  plighted  to  hold 
up  your  praises, 

As  the  turf  at  your  feet  does  its  hand 
ful  of  daisies  ; 

That  way  lies  my  honor,  —  my  pathway 
of  pride, 

But,  mark  you,  if  greener  grass  grow 
either  side, 

I  shall  know  it,  and  keeping  in  body 
with  you, 

Shall  walk  in  my  spirit  with  feet  on  the 
dew  ! 

We  're  married !  Oh,  pray  that  our 
Joye  do  not  fail  ! 


I  have  wings  flattened  down  and  hid 

under  my  veil  : 
They   are   subtle   as   light  —  you   can 

never  undo  them, 
And    swift   in    their   flight  —  you    can 

never  pursue  them, 
And  spite  of  all  clasping,  and  spite  of 

all  bands, 
I  can  slip  like  a  shadow,  a  dream,  from 

your  hands. 

Nay,  call  me  not  cruel,  and  fear  not  to 

take  me, 
I  am  yours  for  my  life-time,  to  be  what 

you  make  me,  — 
To  wear  my  white  veil  for  a  sign,  or  a 

cover, 
As  you  shall  be  proven  my  lord,  or  my 

lover ; 
A  cover  for  peace  that  is  dead,  or  a 

token 
Of  bliss  that  can  never  be  written  or 

spoken. 


PITILESS  FATE. 

I  SAW  in  my  dream  a  wonderful  stream, 
And  over  the  stream  was  a  bridge  so 

slender, 
And  over  the  white  there  was  scarlet 

light, 

And  over  the  scarlet  a  golden  splen 
dor. 

And  beyond  the  bridge  was  a  goodly 

ridge 
Where  bees  made  honey  and  corn 

was  growing, 
And  down  that  way  through  the  gold 

and  gray 

A  gay  young  man  in  a  boat  was  row 
ing. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


2I3 


I  could  see  from  the  shore  that  a  rose 

he  wore 
Stuck  in  his  button-hole,  rare  as  the 

rarest, 

And  singing  a  song  and  rowing  along, 
I  guessed  his  face  to  be  fair  as  the 
fairest. 

And  all  by  the  corn  where  the  bees  at 

morn 

Made  combs  of  honey  —  with  breath 
ing  bated, 
I  saw  by  the   stream   (it  was   only  a 

dream) 

A    lovely    lady    that    watched    and 
waited. 

There  were   fair  green   leaves  in  her 

silken  sleeves, 
And   loose   her  locks  in  the   winds 

were  blowing, 

And  she  kissed  to  land  with  her  milk- 
white  hand 

The  gay  young  man  in  the  boat  a-row- 
ing. 

And  all  so  light  in  her  apron  white 
She  caught  the  little  red  rose  he  cast 

her, 
And,    "  Haste  !  "    she    cried,  with    her 

arms  so  wide, 

"  Haste,  sweetheart,  haste  !  "  but  the 
boat  was  past  her. 

And    the   gray  so   cold   ran   over   the 

gold, 
And  she  sighed  with  only  the  winds 

to  hear  her  — 
"  He  loves  me  still,  and  he  rowed  with 

a  will, 

But  pitiless  Fate,  not  he,  was  steer- 
er  !  " 

And  there  till  the  morn  blushed  over 

the  corn, 
And    over    the    bees  in  their  sweet 

combs  humming, 
Her    locks    with    the    dew    drenched 

through  and  through 
She  watched  and  waited  for  her  false 
love's  coming  ! 

But  the  maid  to-day  who  reads  my  lay 
May  keep  her  young  heart  light  as  a 

feather  — 
It  was  only  a  dream,  the    bridge  and 

the  stream, 
And  lady  and  lover,  and  all  together. 


THE   LOVER'S   INTERDICT. 

STOP,  traveler,  just  a  moment   at  my 

gate, 
And  I  will   give    you  news  so  very 

sweet 
That  you  will  thank  me.     Where  the 

branches  meet 
Across  your  road,  and  droop,  as  with 

the  weight 
Of  shadows  laid  upon  them,  pause,  I 

pray, 
And   turn   aside  a  little   from  your 

way. 

You  see  the  drooping  branches  over 
spread 

With  shadows,  as  I  told  you  —  look 
you  now 

To  the  high  elm-tree  with  the  dead 

white  bough 

Loose  swinging  out  of  joint,  and  there, 
with  head 

Tricked  out  with  scarlet,  pouring  his 
wild  lay, 

You  see  a  blackbird  :  turn  your  step 
that  way. 

Holding  along  the  honeysuckle  hedge, 
Make  for  the  meadows  lying  down 

so  low  ; 
Ah  !  now  I   need   not  say  that  you 

must  go 

No  farther  than  that  little  silver  wedge 
Of  daisy-land,  pushed  inward  by  the 

flood 

Betwixt  the  hills — you  could  not,  if 
you  would. 

For  you  will  see  there,  as  the  sun  goes 
down, 

And   freckles   all   the    daisy   leaves 
with  gold, 

A   little    maiden,    in    their    evening 

fold 

Penning  two   lambs  —  her  soft,  fawn- 
colored  gown 

Tucked  over  hems   of   violet,  by   a 
hand 

Dainty  as  any  lady's  in  the  land. 

Such  gracious  light  she  will  about  her 

bring, 
That,  when    the  day,  being  wedded 

to  the  shade, 
Wears   the  moon's    circle,  blushing, 

as  the  maid 


214 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Blushes  to  wear  the  unused  marriage- 
ring, 

And  all  the  quickened  clouds  do  fall 
astir 

With  daffodils,  your  thoughts  will 
stay  with  her. 

No   ornaments   but  her  two  sapphire 

eyes, 
And    the   twin  roses  in  her  cheeks 

that  grow, 
The    nice-set   pearls,   that   make  so 

fine  a  show 
When  that  she  either  softly  smiles  or 

sighs, 
And  the  long  tresses,  colored  like  a 

bee  — 
Brown,    with    a    sunlight    shimmer. 

You  will  see, 

When  you  have  ceased    to  watch  the 

airy  spring 
Of  her   white   feet,  a   fallen   beech 

hard  by, 
The  yellow  earth  about  the  gnarled 

roots  dry, 
And  if  you  hide  there,  you  will  hear 

her  sing 
That    song    Kit    Marlowe    made   so 

long  ago  — 
"Come    live    with    me,  and   be    my 

love,'1  you  know. 

Dear  soul,  you  would  not  be  at  heav 
en's  high  gate 
Among  the  larks,  that  constellated 

hour, 

Nor   locked   alone    in    some   green- 
hearted  bower 
Among  the  nightingales,  being  in  your 

fate, 
By  fortune's  sweet  selection,  graced 

above 

All  grace,  to  hear  that  —  Come,  and 
be  my  love  ! 

But  when  the  singer  singeth  down  the 
sweets 

To  that  most  maiden-like  and  lovely 
bed  — 

All   out    of    soft    persuasive    roses 

spread  — 

You  must  not  touch  the  fair  and  flow 
ery  sheets 

Even  in  your  thought !  and  from 
your  perfect  bliss 

I  furthermore  must  interdict  you 
this  : 


When  all  the  wayward  mists,  because 

of  her, 
Lie  in  their  white  wings,  movelesr,, 

on  the  air, 
You  must  not  let  the  loose  net  of  her 

hair 
Drag    your    heart   to   her  !    nor   from 

hushed  breath  stir 
Out  of  your  sacred  hiding.     As  you 

guess 
She     is    my    love  —  this    woodland 

shepherdess. 

The  cap,  the  clasps,  the  kirtle  fr'.hged 

along 
With  myrtles,  as  the  hand  ri   dear 

old  Kit 
Did  of  his  cunning  pleasun.  broider 

it, 

To  ornament  that  dulcet  piece  of  song 
Immortalled  with  refrains  of — Live 

with  me  ! 
These  to  your  fancy,  one  and  all  are 

free. 

But,  favored  traveler,  ere  you  quit  my 

gate, 
Promise  to  hold  it,  in  your  mind  to 

be 

Enamored  only  of  the  melody, 
Else   will  I  pray  that  all   yon  woody 

weight 
Of  branch  and  shadow,  as  you  pass 

along, 
Crush  you  among  the  echoes  of  the 

song. 


SNOWED  UNDER. 

COME  let  us  talk  together, 

While  the  sunset  fades  and  dies, 
And,  darling,  look  into  my  heart, 

And  not  into  my  eyes. 

Let  us  sit  and  talk  together 
In  the  old,  familiar  place, 

But  look  deep  down  into  my  heart, 
Not  up  into  my  face. 

And  with  tender  pity  shield  me  — 
I  am  just  a  withered  bough  — 

I  was  used  to  have  your  praises, 
And  you  cannot  praise  me  now. 

You  would  nip  the  blushing  roses  ; 
They  were  blighted  long  ago, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


215 


But  the  precious  roots,  my  darling, 
Are  alive  beneath  the  snow. 

And  in  the  coming  spring-time 
They  will  all  to  beauty  start  — 

Oh,  look  not  in  my  face,  beloved, 
But  only  in  my  heart ! 

You  will  not  find  the  little  buds, 

So  tender  and  so  bright ; 
They  are  snowed  so  deeply  under, 

They  will  never  come  to  light. 

So  look,  I  pray  you,  in  my  heart, 

And  not  into  my  face, 
And  think  about  that  coming  spring 

Of  greenness  and  of  grace, 

When  from  the  winter-laden  bough 
The    weight    of     snow    shall    drop 
away, 

And  give  it  strength  to  spring  into 
The  life  of  endless  May. 


AN  EMBLEM. 


like, 


WHAT  is   my   little    sweetheart 

d'  you  say  ? 
A    simple  question,  yet   a   hard,    to 

answer  ; 
But  I  will  tell  you  in  my  stammering 

way 
The  best  I  can,  sir. 

When    I    was    young  —  that's  neither 

here  nor  there  — 
I  read,  and  reading  made  my  eyelids 

glisten  ; 

But  I  '11  repeat  the  story,  if  you  care 
To  stay  and  listen. 

A   wild    rose,   born  within   a    modest 

glen, 
And  sheltered  by  the  leaves  of  thorny 

bushes, 
Drooped,  being  commended  to  the  eyes 

of  men, 
And  died  of  blushes. 

Now,  if  there  were  — and  one  may  well 

suppose 
There  never  was   a  flower   of   such 

rare  splendor, 
Much  less  a   rudely  nurtured    wilding 

rose, 
Withal  so  tender  — 


But  say  there  were ;  what  is  a  rose  the 

less, 
When  all  from  east  to  west  the  May 

is  blazing, 
That  any  tuneful  bard  her  face  should 

miss, 
And  give  her  praising  ? 

Yet  say  there  did,  and  that  her  heart 

did  break, 
As    tells    the    romance  of   my  early 

reading, 

Then  I  that  fair,  fond  flower  for  em 
blem  take  — 
Sir,  are  you  heeding  ?  — 

Aye,  say  there  were,  and  that  she  spent 

her  days 
In   ignorance    of    her   proud    poetic 

glory  ; 

Only  her  soft  death  making  to  the  praise 
Of  her  brief  story  : 

Even  such  a  wild,  bright  flower,  and  so 

apart 
In  her  low  modest  house,  my  little 

maid  is  — 
Sweet-hearted,  shy,  and  strange  to  all 

the  art 
Of  your  fine  ladies. 

So  tender,  that  to  death  she  needs  must 

grieve, 
Stabbed  by  the  glances  of  bold  eyes, 

is  certain  ; 
Take  you  the  emblem,  then,  and  give 

me  leave 
To  drop  the  curtain. 


QUEEN  OF  ROSES. 

MY  little  love  hath  made 
A  garden  that  all  sweetest  sweetness 
holds, 

And  there  for  hours  upon  a  piece  of 

shade 

Fringed     round    with    marjoram    and 
marigolds, 

She  lieth  dreaming,  on  her  arm  of 
pearl, 

My  pretty  little    love  —  my  garden- 
girl. 

The  walks  are  one  and  all 
Enriched  along  their  borders  with  wild 
mint, 


216 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And    pinks,    and    gilliflowers,    both 

large  and  small  ; 
But  where   her   little  feet  do  leave  a 

print, 
Whether  on  grass  or  ground,  it  doth 

displace 
And    make    of    non-effect    all  other 

grace. 

Her  speech  is  all  so  fair 
The  winds  disgraced,  do  from  her  pres 
ence  run, 

And   when   she   combeth   loose  her 

heavenly  hair 
She  giveth  entertainment  to  the  sun. 

Oh,  just  to  touch  the  least  of  all  thy 
curls, 

My  golden  head  —  my  queen  of  gar 
den-girls. 

Her  shawl-corners  of  snow 
Like  wings  drop  down  about  her  when 

she  stands 
And  never  queen's  lace  made  so  fair 

a  show 
As  that  doth,  knitted  in  her  two  white 

hands  ; 
The  while  some  sudden  look  of  cold 

surprise 
Shoots  like  an  angry  comet  to  her 

eyes. 

When  she  doth  walk  abroad 
Her   subject   flowers   do   one   and   all 

arise  ; 
The  low  ones  housed  meekly  in  the 

sod 
Do  kiss  her  feet  —  the  lofty  ones,  her 

eyes. 
Oh   sad  for  him  whose  seeing  hath 

not  seen 
My  rose   of   roses,  and   my  heart's 

dear  queen. 

I  'm  tying  all  my  .hours 
With  sighs  together  —  "  Welladay  !  ah 

me  !" 
Because  I  cannot  choose  nor  words, 

nor  flowers, 
Wherewith  to  lure  my  love  to  marry 

me  ! 
I  '11  ask  her  what  the  wretched  man 

must  say 
Who  loves  a  saint,  and  woo  her  just 

that  way. 

Else  in  some  honeyed  phrase 
I  '11  fit  a  barb  no  clearest  sight  can  see, 


And  toss  it  up  and  down  all  cunning 

ways, 

Until  I  catch  and  drag  her  heart  to  me  ! 
Ah,  then  I  '11  tease  her,  for  my  life  of 

pain, 
For   she   shall   never  have   it  back 

again. 


NOW  AND  THEN. 

"  SING  me  a  song,  my  nightingale, 
Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers  ; 
And  make  it  low,"  he  said,  "  I  pray, 
And   make   it  sweet."     But   she  said, 

"Nay; 

Come  when  the  morn  begins  to  trail 
Her  golden  glories  o'er  the  gray  — 
Morn  is  the  time  for  love's  all-hail  !  " 
He  said,  "  The  morning  is  not  ours  ! 

"Then  give  me   back,  my  heart's  de 
light, 

Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers, 
The  kiss  I  gave  you  yesterday  — 
See  how  the  moon  this  way  has  leant, 
As  if  to  yield  a  soft  consent. 
Surely,"  he  said,  "  you  will  requite 
My   love    in    this  ? "     But    she    said, 

"  Nay." 
"Yea,  now,"  he   said.     But   she  said, 

"  Hush  ! 

And  come  to  me  at  morning-blush." 
He  said,  "  The  morning  is  not  ours  ! 

"  But  say,  at  least,  you  love  me,  love. 
Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers  ; 
No  winds  are  listening,  far  or  near  — 
The  sleepy  doves  will  never  hear." 
"  Ah,  leave  me  in  my  sacred  glen  ; 
And   when   the    saffron   morn    shall 

close 

Her  misty  arms  about  the  rose, 
Come,    and    my   speech,    my    thought 

shall  prove  — 
Not   now,"  she   said  ;    "  not  now,  but 

then." 
He  said,  "  The  morning  is  not  ours  !  " 


THE  LADY  TO   THE    LOVER. 

SINCE  thou  wouldst  have  me  show 
In  what  sweet  way  our  love  appears 

to  me, 
Think  of  sweet  ways,  the   sweetest 

that  can  be, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


217 


And    thou   may'st   partly   dream,    but 

canst  not  know : 
For  out  of  heaven  no  bliss  — 
Disshadowed  lies,  like  this, 

Therefore  similitudes  thou  must  forego. 

Thou  seem'st  myself's  lost  part, 

That  hath,  in  a  new  compact,  dearer 

close  ; 
And   if    that   thou   shouldst   take   a 

broken  rose 

And  fit  the  leaves  again  about  the  heart, 
That  mended  flower  would  be 
A  poor,  faint  sign  to  thee 
Of  how  one's  self  about  the  other  grows. 

Think  of  the  sun  and  dew 

Walled  in  some  little  house  of  leaves 

from  sight, 
Each  from   the  other  taking,  giving 

light, 
And      interpenetrated     through      and 

through  ; 

Feeding,  and  fed  upon  — 
All  given,  and  nothing  gone, 
And  thou  art  still  as  far  as  day  from 
night. 

Sweeter  than  honey-comb 

To    little   hungry  bees,   when   rude 

winds  blow  ; 
Brighter  than  wayside  window-lights 

that  glow 
Through  the  cold  rain,  to  one  that  has 

no  home  ; 

But  out  of  heaven,  no  bliss 
Disshadowed  lies,  like  this,  — 
Therefore  similitudes  thou  must  forego. 


LOVE'S   SECRET  SPRINGS. 

IN  asking  how  I  came  to  choose 

This  flower  that  makes  my  brow  to 

shine, 

You  seem  to  say,  you  did  not  lose 
Your  choice,  my  friend,  when  I  had 

mine  ! 

And  by  your  lifted  brow,  exclaim, 
"  What    charms    have    charmed    you  ? 
name  their  name  !  " 

Nay,  pardon  me  —  I  cannot  say 
These  are  the  charms,  and  those  the 
powers, 

And  being  in  a  trance  one  day, 

I  took  her  for  my  flower  of  flowers. 


Love  doth  not  flatter  what  he  gives  — 
But  here,  sir,  are  some  negatives. 

'T  is  not  the  little  milk-white  hands 
That  grace  whatever  work  they  do  ; 

'T  is  not  the  braided  silken  bands 
That  shade  the  eyes  of  tender  blue  ; 

And  not  the  voice  so  low  and  sweet 

That  holds  me  captive  at  her  feet. 

'T  is  not  in  frowns,  knit  up  with  smiles, 
Wherewith  she  scolds  me  for  my  sins, 

Nor  yet  in  tricksy  ways  nor  wiles 
That  I  can  say  true  love  begins  ! 

Out  of  such  soil  it  did  not  grow  ; 

It  was,  —  and  that  is  all  I  know. 

'T  is  not  her  twinkling  feet  so  small, 
Nor    shoulder    glancing    from     her 
sleeve, 

Nor  yet  her  virtues,  one  nor  all  — 
Love  were  not  love  to  ask  our  leave  ; 

She  was  not  woed,  nor  was  I  won  — 

What  draws  the  dew-drop  to  the  sun  ? 

Pardon  me,  then,  I  cannot  tell,  — 
Nor  can  you  hope  to  understand,  — 

Why  I  should  love  my  love  so  well ; 
Nor  how,  upon  this  border  land, 

It  fell  that  she  should  go  with  me 

Through  time  into  eternity. 


AT  SEA. 

BROWN-FACED  sailor,  tell  me  true  — 
Our  ship  I  fear  is  but  illy  thriving, 
Some  clouds  are  black  and  some  are 

blue, 
The    women     are     huddled     together 

below, 

Above  the  captain  treads  to  and  fro ; 
Tell  me,  for  who  shall  tell  but  you, 
Whither  away  our  ship  is  driving  ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  a  storm  this  way, 
The  bubbles  in  "my  face  are  wink 
ing — 

'T  is  growing  dark  in  the  middle  of  day 
And  I  cannot  see  the  good  green  land, 
Nor  a  ridge  of  rock,  nor  a  belt  of  sand  ; 
Oh,  kind  sailor,  speak  and  say, 

How  long  might  a  little  boat  be  sink- 


More  saucily  the  bubbles  wink  ; 

God's    mercy    keep    us    from    foul 
weather, 


218 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  from   drought  with    nothing   but 

brine  to  drink. 
I  dreamed  of  a  ship  with  her  ribs  stove 

in, 
Last  night,  and  waking  thought  of  my 

sin  ; 
How  long  would  a  strong  man  swim, 

d'  y'  think, 
If  we  were  all  in  th'  sea  together  ? 

The  sailor  frowned  a  bitter  frown, 

1    And  answered,  "Aye,  there  will  be 

foul  weather,  — 
All   men   must   die,    and    some    must 

drown, 

And  there  is  n't  water  enough  in  the  sea 
To  cleanse  a  sinner  like  you  or  me  ; 
O  Lord,  the  ships  I  've  seen  go  down, 
Crew  and  captain  and  all  together  !  " 

The  sailor  smiled  a  smile  of  cheer, 

And  looked  at  me  a  look  of  wonder, 
And  said,  as  he  wiped  away  a  tear, 
"  Forty  years  I  've  been  off  the  land 
And  God  has  held  me  safe  in  his  hand  : 
He  ruleth  the  storm  —  He  is  with  us 

here, 

And  his  love  for  us  no  sin  can  sun 
der." 


A  CONFESSION. 

I  KNOW  a  little  damsel 

As  light  of  foot  as  the  air, 
And  with  smile  as  gay 
As  th'  sun  o'  th'  May 

And  clouds  of  golden  hair. 
She  sings  with  the  larks  at  morning, 

And  sings  with  the  doves  at  e'en, 
And  her  cheeks  they  shine 
Like  a  rose  on  the  vine, 

And  her  name  is  Charlamine. 
To  plague  me  and  to  please  me 

She  knows  a  thousand  arts, 
And  against  my  will 
I  love  her  still 

With  all  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 

I  know  another  damsel 
With  eyelids  lowly  weighed, 

And  so  pale  is  she 

That  she  seems  to  me 

Like  a  blossom  blown  in  the  shade. 

Her  hands  are  white  as  charity, 
And  her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she  runneth  quick 


To  the  sinful  and  sick, 

And  her  name  is  Marguerite. 

The  broken  and  bowed  in  spirit 
She  maketh  straight  and  whole, 

And  I  sit  at  her  knee 

And  she  sings  to  me. 

And  I  love  her  with  my  soul. 

I  know  a  lofty  lady, 

And  her  name  is  Heleanore. 
And  th'  king  o'  the  sky 
In  her  lap  doth  lie 

When  she  sitteth  at  her  door. 
Her  shoulder  is  curved  like  an  eagle's 
wing 

When  he  riseth  on  his  way, 
And  my  two  little  maids 
They  lay  in  braids 

Her  dark  locks  day  by  day. 
Her   heart    in   the   folds   of   her  ker 
chief 

It  doth  not  fall  or  rise, 
And  afar  I  wait 
At  her  royal  gate, 

And  I  love  her  with  my  eyes  ! 

Now  you  that  are  wise  in  love-lore, 

Come  teach  your  arts  to  me, 
For  each  of  the  darling  damsels 

Is  as  sweet  as  she  can  be  ! 
And  if  I  wed  with  Charlamine 

Of  the  airy  little  feet. 
I  shall  sicken  and  sigh, 
I  shall  droop  and  die, 

For  my  gentle  Marguerite  ! 
And  if  I  wed  with  Marguerite, 

Whom  I  so  much  adore, 
I  shall  long  to  go 
From  her  hand  of  snow 

To  my  Lady  Heleanore  ! 
And  if  I  wed  with  Heleanore, 

Whom  with  my  eyes  I  love, 
'Gainst  all  that  is  right, 
In  my  own  despite, 

I  shall  false  and  faithless  prove. 


EASTER  BRIDAL  SONG. 

HASTE,  little  fingers,  haste,  haste  ! 

Haste,  little  fingers,  pearly  ; 
And  all  along  the  slender  waist, 

And  up  and  down  the  silken  sleeves 

Knot  the  darling  and  dainty  leaves, 
And  wind  o'  the  south,  blow  light  and 
fast, 

And  bring  the  flowers  so  early  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


2I9 


Low,  droop  low,  my  tender  eyes, 

Low,  and  all  demurely, 
And  make  the  shining  seams  to  run 
Like  little  streaks  o'  th'  morning  sun 

Through  silver  clouds  so  purely  ; 
And  fall,  sweet  rain,  fallout  o'  th'  skies, 

And  bring  the  flowers  so  early  ! 

Push,   little   hands,   from   the   bended 

face, 

The  tresses  crumpled  curly, 
And  stitch  the  hem  in  the  frill  of  snow 
And  give  to  the  veil  its  misty  flow, 

And  melt,  ye  frosts,  so  surly  ; 
And  shine  out,  spring,  with  your  days 

of  grace, 
And  bring  the  flowers  so  early ! 


PRODIGAL'S  PLEA. 

SHINE  down,  little  head,  so  fair, 
From  thy  window  in  the  wall ; 

Oh,  my  slighted  golden  hair, 

Like  the  sunshine  round  me  fall  — 

Little  head,  so  fair,  so  bright, 

Fill  my  darkness  with  thy  light  ! 

Reach  me  down  thy  helping  hand, 
Little  sweetheart,  good  and  true  ; 

Shamed,  and  self-condemned,  I  stand, 
And  wilt  thou  condemn  me  too  ? 

Soilure  of  sin,  be  sure 

Cannot  harm  thy  hand  so  pure. 

With  thy  quiet,  calm  my  cry 

Pleading  to  thee  from  afar. 
Is  it  not  enough  that  I 

With  myself  should  be  at  war  ? 
With  thy  cleanness,  cleanse  my  blood  ; 
With  thy  goodness,  make  me  good. 

Eyes  that  loved  me  once,  I  pray, 
Be  not  crueller  than  death  : 

Hide  each  sharp-edged  glance  away 
Underneath  its  tender  sheath  ! 

Make  me  not,  sweet  eyes,  with  scorn 

Mourn  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

Oh,  my  roses  !  are  ye  dead  ; 

That  in  love's  delicious  day, 
Used  to  flower  out  ripe  and  red, 

Fast  as  kisses  plucked  away  ? 
Turn  thy  pale  cheek,  little  wife  ; 
Let  me  warm  them  back  to  life. 

I  have  wandered,  oh,  so  far  ! 

From  the  way  of  truth  and  right  ; 


Shine  out  for  my  guiding  star, 

Little  head,  so  dear  and  bright ; 
Dust  of  sin  is  on  my  brow  — 
Good  enough  for  both,  art  thou  ! 


THE   SEAL   FISHER'S   WIFE. 

THE  west  shines  out  through  lines  of 

jet, 
Like  the   side   of  a   fish   through    the 

fisher's  net, 

Silver  and  golden-brown  ; 
And  rocking  the  cradle,  she  sings  so 

low, 
As  backward  and  forward,  and  to  and 

fro, 
She  cards  the  wool  for  her  gown. 

She  sings  her  sweetest,  she  sings  her 

best, 
And  all  the  silver  fades  in  the  west, 

And  all  the  golden-brown, 
And  lowly  leaning  cradle  across, 
She  mends  the  fire  with  faggots  and 

moss, 
And  cards  the  wool  for  her  gown. 

Gray  and  cold,  and  cold  and  gray, 
Over  the  look-out  and  over  the  bay, 

The  sleet  comes  sliding  down, 
And  the  blaze  of  the  faggots  flickers 

thin, 

And    the    wind    is    beating    the    ice- 
blocks  in, 
As  she  cards  the  wool  for  her  gown. 

The  fisher's  boats  in  the  ice  are  crushed. 
And  now  her  lullaby-song  is  hushed,  — 

For  sighs  the  singing  drown,  — 
And  all,  with  fingers  stiff  and  cold, 
She  covers  the  cradle,  fold  on  fold, 

With  the  carded  wool  of  her  gown. 

And  there  —  the  cards  upon  her  knee, 
And  her  eyes  wide  open  toward  the  sea, 

Where     the     fisher's     boats      went 

down  — 

They  found  her  all  as  cold  as  sleet, 
And  her  baby  smiling  up  so  sweet, 

From  the  carded  wool  of  her  gown. 


CARMIA. 

MY  Carmia,  my  life,  my  saint, 
No  flower  is  sweet  enough  to  paint 
Thy  sweet,  sweet  face  for  me  ! 


220 


THE   POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


The  rose-leaf  nails,  the  slender  wrist, 
The  hand,  the  whitest  ever  kissed  — 
Dear  Carmia,  what  has  Raphael  missed 
In  never  seeing  thee  ! 

Oh  to  be  back  among  the  days 
Wherein   she    blessed    me    with    her 
praise  — 

She  knew  not  how  to  frown  ! 
The  memory  of  that  time  doth  seem 
Like  dreaming  of  a  lovely  dream, 
Or  like  a  golden  broider-seam 

Stitched  in  some  homely  gown. 

No  silken  skein  is  half  so  soft 

As  those  long  locks  I  combed  so  oft  — 

No  tender  tearful  skies  — 
No  violet  darkling  into  jet  — 
And     all    with     daybreak    dew-drops 

wet  — 
No  star,  when  first  the  sun  is  set, 

Is  like  my  Carmia's  eyes. 

But  not  the  dainty  little  wrist, 
Nor  hand,  the  whitest  ever  kissed, 

Nor  face,  so  sweet  to  see, 
Nor  words  of  praise,  that  so  did  bless, 
Nor  rose-leaf  nail,  nor  silken  tress, 

Made  her  so  dear  to  me. 

'T  was  nothing  my  poor  words  can  tell, 
Nor  charm  of  chance,  nor  magic  spell 

To  wane,  and  waste,  and  fall  — 
I  loved  her  to  the  utmost  strain 
Of  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  brain, 
And  Carmia  loved  me  back  again, 

And  that  is  all-and-all  ! 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

IN  the  pleasant  spring-time  weather 

Rosy  morns  and  purple  eves  — 
When  the  little  birds  together 

Sit  and  sing  among  the  leaves, 
Then  it  seems  as  if  the  shadows, 

With  their  interlacing  boughs, 
Had  been  hung  above  the  meadows 

For  the  plighting  of  their  vows  ! 

In  the  lighter,  warmer  weather, 

When  the  music  softly  rests, 
And  they  go  to  work  together 

For  the  building  of  their  nests  ; 
Then  the  branches,  for  a  wonder, 

Seem  uplifted  everywhere, 
To  be  props  and  pillars  under 

Little  houses  in  the  air. 


But  when  we  see  the  meeting 

Of  the  lives  that  are  to  run 
Henceforward  to  the  beating 

Of  two  hearts  that  are  as  one, 
When  we  hear  the  holy  taking 

Of  the  vows  that  cannot  break, 
Then  it  seems  as  if  the  making 

Of  the  world  was  for  their  sake. 


JENNIE. 

Now  tell  me  all  my  fate,  Jennie, — 
Why  need  I  plainer  speak  ? 

For  you  see  my  foolish  heart  has  bled 
Its  secret  in  my  cheek  ! 

You  must  not  leave  me  thus,  Jennie, — 
You  will  not,  when  you  know, 

It  is  my  life  you  're  treading  on 
At  every  step  you  go. 

Ah,  should  you  smile  as  now,  Jennie, 
When  the  wintry  weather  blows, 

The  daisy,  waking  out  of  sleep, 

Would  come  up  through  the  snows. 

Shall  our  house  be  on  the  hill,  Jennie, 
Where  the  sumach  hedges  grow  ? 

You  must  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it 's  yes, 
And  kiss  me  if  it 's  no. 

It  shall  be  very  fine  —  the  door 

With  bean-vines  overrun, 
And    th'  window   toward    the    harvest- 
field 

Where  first  our  love  begun. 

What  marvel  that  I  could  not  mow 
When  you  came  to  rake  the  hay, 

For  I  cannot  speak  your  name,  Jennie, 
If  I  've  nothing  else  to  say. 

Nor  is  it  strange  that  when  I  saw 
Your  sweet  face  in  a  frown, 

I  hung  my  scythe  in  the  apple-tree, 
And  thought  the  sun  was  down. 

For  when  you  sung  the  tune  that  ends 

With  such  a  golden  ring, 
The  lark  was  made  ashamed,  and  sat 

With  her  head  beneath  her  wing. 

You  need  not  try  to  speak,  Jennie, 

You  blush  and  tremble  so, 
But  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it 's  yes, 

And  kiss  me  if  it's  no  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


221 


MIRIAM. 

LIKE  to  that  little  homely  flower 
That  never  from   her   rough    house 
stirs 

While  summer  lasts,  but  sits  and  combs 
The  sunbeams  with  her  purple  burs, 

So  kept  she  in  her  house  content 

While  love's  bright  summer  with  her 

stayed  ; 
But   change  works  change,  and  since 

she  met 
A  shadow  from  the  land  of  shade  ; 

The   ghost   of    that   wild   flower  that 
sits 

In  her  rough  house,  and  never  stirs 
While  summer  lasts,  has  not  a  face 

So  dead  of  meaning,  as  is  hers. 

In  vain  the  pitying  year  puts  on 

Her    rose-red     mornings,    for     like 
streams 


Lost  from  the  sunlight  under  banks 
Of  wintry  darkness,  are  her  dreams. 

In  vain  among  their  clouds  of  green 
The  wild  birds  sing  —  she  says  with 

tears 
Their  sweet  tongues  stammer  in   the 

tunes 
They  sang  so  well  in  other  years. 

Her  home  in  ruins  lies,  and  thorns 
Choke  with   their   briery   arms,    the 
do.or ; 

What  matter,  says  she,  since  that  love 
Will  cross  the  threshold,  never  more. 


O 


ye    are    too 


rough,    too 


WINDS ! 

rough  ! 
O  spring !  thou  art  not  long  enough 

For  sweetness  ;  and  for  thee, 
O  love  !  thou  still  must  overpass 
Time's  low  and  dark  and  narrow  glass, 
And  fill  eternity. 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND  CONSOLATION. 


MOURN  NOT. 

O     MOURNER,     mourn     not    vanished 

light, 

But  fix  your  fearful  hopes  above  ; 
The   watcher,  through  the   long^  dark 

night, 

Shall   see    the    daybreak   of    God's 
love. 

A  land  all  green  and  bright  and  fair, 
Lies  just  beyond  this  vale  of  tears, 

And  we  shall  meet,  immortal  there, 
The  pleasures  of  our  mortal  years. 

He  who  to  death  has  doomed  our  race, 
With    steadfast   faith    our  souls  has 
armed, 

And  made  us  children  of  his  grace 
To  go  into  the  grave,  unharmed. 

The   storm   may  beat,  the   night   may 

close, 
The  face  may  change,  the  blood  run 

chill, 

But  his  great  love  no  limit  knows, 
And  therefore  we  should  fear  no  ill. 

Dust  as  we  are,  and  steeped  in  guilt, 
How   strange,    how    wondrous,  how 
divine, 

That  He  hath  for  us  mansions  built, 
Where  everlasting  splendors  shine. 

Our  days  with  beauty  let  us  trim, 
As    Nature   trims    with    flowers    the 

sod  ; 
Giving  the  glory  all  to  Him,  — 

Our    Friend,    our    Father,    and    our 
God. 


CONSOLATION. 

O   FRIENDS,   we    are   drawing    nearer 
home 

As  day  by  day  goes  by  ; 
Nearer  the  fields  of  fadeless  bloom, 

The  joys  that  never  die. 

Ye   doubting    souls,    from     doubt    be 
free,  — 

Ye  mourners,  mourn  no  more, 
For  every  wave  of  death's  dark  sea 

Breaks  on  that  blissful  shore. 

God's     ways     are     high     above     our 
ways,  — 

So  shall  we  learn  at  length, 
And  tune  our  lives  to  sing  his  praise 

With  all  our  mind,  might,  strength. 

About  our  devious  paths  of  ill 

He  sets  his  stern  decrees, 
And  works  the  wonder  of  his  will 

Through  pains  and  promises. 

Strange  are  the  mysteries  He  employs, 

Yet  we  his  love  will  trust, 
Though    it   should   blight  our  clearest 
joys, 

And  bruise  us  into  dust. 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW. 

MY  sorrowing  friend,  arise  and  go 
About  thy  house  with  patient  care  ; 

The  hand  that  bows  thy  head  so  low 
Will   bear  the    ills   thou   canst   not 
bear. 


POEMS   OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


223 


Arise,  and  all  thy  tasks  fulfill, 
And   as    thy  day  thy  strength  shall 
be  ; 

Were  there  no  power  beyond  the  ill, 
The  ill  could  not  have  come  to  thee. 

Though    cloud    arid    storm   encompass 

thee, 

Be  not  afflicted  nor  afraid  ; 
Thou   knowest  the    shadow  could  not 

be 

Were     there    no    sun     beyond    the 
shade. 

For  thy  beloved,  dead  and  gone, 

Let  sweet,  not  bitter,  tears  be  shed  ; 

Nor  "  open  thy  dark  saying  on 

The  harp,"  as  though  thy  faith  were 
dead. 

Couldst   thou   even   have   them    reap 
pear 

In  bodies  plain  to  mortal  sense, 
How  were  the  miracle  more  clear 
To  bring   them    than   to  take  them 
hence  ? 

Then  let  thy  soul  cry  in  thee  thus 
No    more,  nor   let  thine    eyes    thus 
weep  ; 

Nothing  can  be  withdrawn  from  us 
That  we  have  any  need  to  keep. 

Arise,  and  seek  some  height  to  gain 
From  life's  dark  lesson  day  by  day, 

Not  just  rehearse  its  peace  and  pain  — 
A  wearied  actor  at  the  play. 

Nor  grieve  that  will  so  much  transcends 
Thy  feeble  powers,  but  in  content 

Do  what  thou  canst,  and  leave  the  ends 
And  issues  with  the  Omnipotent. 

Dust  as  thou  art,  and  born  to  woe, 
Seeing  darkly,  and  as  through  a  glass, 

He  made  thee  thus  to  be,  for  lo  ! 

He  made    the   grass,  and    flower  of 
grass. 

The  tempest's  cry,  the  thunder's  moan, 
The  waste  of  waters,  wild  and  dim, 

The    still    small    voice    thou    hear'st 

alone  — 
All,  all  alike  interpret  Him. 

Arise,  my  friend,  and  go  about 

Thy  darkened   house  with    cheerful 
feet  ; 


Yield  not  one  jot  to  fear  nor  doubt, 
But,  baffled,  broken,  still  repeat : 

"  'T  is  mine  to  work,  and  not  to  win  ; 

The    soul    must   wait   to   have    her 

wings  : 
Even  time  is  but  a  landmark  in 

The  great  eternity  of  things. 

"  Is  it  so  much  that  thou  below, 
O  heart,  shouldst  fail  of  thy  desire, 

When  death,  as  we  believe  and  know, 
Is  but  a  call  to  come  up  higher  ? " 


LOST   LILIES. 

I   SHOW  you  her  picture  ?     Here  it  lies  ! 
Hands  of  lilies,  and  lily-like  brow  ; 
Mouth  that  is  bright  as  a  rose,  and  eyes 
That   are    just   the   soul's    sweetest 
overflow. 

Darling  shoulders,  softly  pale, 
Borne  by  the  undulating  play 

Of  the  life  below,  up  out  of  their  veil, 
Like  lilies  out  o'  the  waves  o'  the 
May. 

Throat  as  white  as  the  throat  of  a  swan, 
And  all  as  proudly  graceful  held  ; 

Fair,  bare  bosom,  "  clothed  upon 
With  chastity,"  like  the  lady  of  eld. 

Tender  lids,  that  drooping  down, 
Chide  your  glances  overbold  ; 

Fair,  with  a  golden  gleam  in  the  brown, 
And  brown  again  in  the  gleamy  gold. 

These  on  your  eyes  like  a  splendor  fall, 
And    you  marvel  not  at  my  love,   I 

see  ; 

But  it  was  not  one,  and  it  was  not  all, 
That  made  her  the  angel  she  was  to 
me. 

So  shut  the  picture  and  put  it  away, 
Your  fancy  is  only  thus  misled  ; 

What  can  the  dull,  cold  semblance  say, 
When  the  spirit  and  life  of  the  life  is 
fled? 

Seven  long  years,  and  seven  again, 
And    three  to  the   seven  —  a  weary 
space  — 

The  weary  fingers  of  the  rain 

Have  drawn  the  daisies  over  her  face. 


224 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


Seven  and  seven  years,  and  three, 
The  leaves  have  faded  to  death  in  the 

frost, 

Since  the  shadow  that  made  for  me 
The   world   a  shadow   my  pathway 
crossed. 

And  now  and  then  some  meteor  gleam 
Has    broken    the   gloom    of   my  life 

apart, 
Or  the  only  thread  of  some   raveled 

dream 
Has  slid  like  sunshine  in  my  heart. 

But  never  a  planet,  steady  and  still, 
And   never    a    rainbow,    brave    and 

fine, 

And  never  the  flowery  head  of  a  hill 
Has  made  the  cloud  of  my  life  to 
shine. 

Yet  God  is  love  !  and  this  I  trust, 
Though  summer  is  over  and  sweet 
ness  done, 
That    all    my    lilies  are  safe,    in   the 

dust, 

As  they  were  in  the  glow  of  the  great, 
glad  sun. 

Yea,  God  is  love,  and  love  is  might ! 
Mighty    as    surely    to    keep    as   to 

make  ; 
And  the  sleepers,  sleeping  in  death's 

dark  night, 

In    the    resurrection    of    life    shall 
wake. 


A   WONDER. 

STILL  alway  groweth  in  me  the  great 
wonder, 

When  all  the  fields  are  blushing  like 

the  dawn, 

And  only  one  poor  little  flower  ploughed 
under, 

That  I  can  see  no  flowers,  that  one 
being  gone  : 

No  flower  of  all,  because  of  one  be 
ing  gone. 

Aye,    ever   in   me   groweth   the   great 

wonder, 
When  all  the  hills  are  shining,  white 

and  red, 
And  only  one  poor  little  flower  ploughed 

under, 


That  it  were  all  as  one  if  all  were 

dead: 
Aye,  all  as  one  if  all  the  flowers  were 

dead. 

I  cannot  feel  the  beauty  of  the  roses  ; 
Their  soft   leaves   seem  to  me  but 

layers  of  dust  ; 
Out  of  my  opening  hand  each  blessing 

closes  : 
Nothing  is  left  to  me  but  my  hope 

and  trust. 

Nothing  but  heavenly  hope  and  heav 
enly  trust. 

I  get   no   sweetness   of  the   sweetest 
places  ; 

My  house,  my  friends  no  longer  com 
fort  me  ; 

Strange  somehow  grow  the  old  familiar 
faces  ; 

For  I  can  nothing  have,  not  having 
thee : 

All     my    possessions    I    possessed 
through  thee. 

Having,    I   have   them    not  —  strange 
contradiction  ! 

Heaven  needs  must  cast  its  shadow 

on  our  earth  ; 

Yea,  drown  us  in  the  waters  of  afflic 
tion 

Breast   high,  to  make  us  know  our 
treasure's  worth, 

To  make  us  know  how  much  our  love 
is  worth. 

And  while  I  mourn,  the  anguish  of  my 
story 

Breaks,  as  the  wave  breaks  on  the 

hindering  bar  : 

Thou  art  but  hidden  in  the  deeps  of 
glory, 

Even  as  the  sunshine  hides  the  les 
sening  star, 

And  with  true  love  I  love  thee  from 
afar. 

I  know  our  Father  must  be  good,  not 

evil, 
And  murmur  not,  for  faith's  sake,  at 

my  ill  ; 
Nor   at   the   mystery  of  the   working 

cavil, 
That  somehow  bindeth  all  things  in 

his  will, 
And,  though  He  slay  me,  makes  me 

trust  Him  still. 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


225 


MOST   BELOVED. 

MY  heart  thou  makest  void,  and  full  ; 

Thou   giv'st,    thou    tak'st   away   my 

care  ; 
O  most  beloved  !  most  beautiful ! 

I  miss,  and  find  thee  everywhere  ! 

In  the  sweet  water,  as  it  flows  ; 

The   winds,    that  kiss   me   as    they 

pass  ; 
The  starry  shadow  of  the  rose, 

Sitting  beside  her  on  the  grass  ; 

The  daffodilly  trying  to  bless 

With  better  light  the  beauteous  air  ; 

The  lily,  wearing  the  white  dress 
Of  sanctuary,  to  be  more  fair  ; 

The  lithe-armed,  dainty-fingered  brier, 
That    in    the    woods,   so    dim    and 
drear, 

Lights  up  betimes  her  tender  fire 
To  soothe  the  homesick  pioneer ; 

The  moth,  his  brown  sails  balancing 
Along  the  stubble,  crisp  and  dry  ; 

The   ground-flower,  with    a  blood-red 

ring 
On  either  hand  :  the  pewet's  cry  ; 

The  friendly  robin's  gracious  note  ; 
The  hills,  with  curious  weeds  o'er- 

run  ; 
The  althea,  in  her  crimson  coat 

Tricked  out  to   please   the   wearied 
sun  ; 

The  dandelion,  whose  golden  share 
Is  set  before  the  rustic's  plough  ; 

The  hum  of  insects  in  the  air  ; 

The  blooming    bush ;    the   withered 
bough  ; 

The  coming  on  of  eve  ;  the  springs 

Of  daybreak,  soft  and  silver  bright ; 
The    frost,    that    with    rough,  rugged 

wings 

Blows  down  the  cankered  buds  ;  the 
white, 

Long  drifts  of  winter  snow  ;  the  heat 

Of  August  falling  still  and  wide  ; 
Broad  corn  fields  ;  one  chance  stalk  of 

wheat, 

Standing    with     bright    head    hung 
aside  : 

15 


All  things,  my  darling,  all  things  seem 
In    some    strange   way  to    speak   of 
thee  ; 

Nothing  is  half  so  much  a  dream, 
Nothing  so  much  reality. 


MY   DARLINGS. 

WHEN  steps  are  hurrying  homeward, 
And  night  the  world  o'erspreads, 

And  I  see  at  the  open  windows 
The  shining  of  little  heads, 

I  think  of  you,  my  darlings, 

In  your  low  and  lonesome  beds. 

And  when  the  latch  is  lifted, 
And  I  hear  the  voices  glad, 

I  feel  my  arms  more  empty, 
My  heart  more  widely  sad  ; 

For  we  measure  dearth  of  blessings 
By  the  blessings  we  have  had. 

But  sometimes  in  sweet  visions 
My  faith  to  sight  expands, 

And  with  my  babes  in  his  bosom, 
My  Lord  before  me  stands, 

And  I  feel  on  my  head  bowed  lowly 
The  touches  of  little  hands. 

Then  pain  is  lost  in  patience, 
And  tears  no  longer  flow  : 

They  are  only  dead  to  the  sorrow 
And  sin  of  life,  I  know  ; 

For  if  they  were  not  immortal 
My  love  would  make  them  so. 


IN   DESPAIR. 

I  KNOW  not  what  the  world  may  be,  — 
For  since  I  have  nor  hopes  nor  fears, 
All  things  seem  strange  and  far  to  me, 
As  though  I  had  sailed  on  some  sad 

sea, 
For  years  and  years,  and  years  and 


years 


Sailed  through  blind  mists,  you  under 
stand, 
And   leagues    of    bleak    and    bitter 

foam  ; 

Seeing  belts  of  rock  and  bars  of  sand, 
But  never  a  strip  of  flowery  land, 
And   never   the   light   of   hearth   or 
home. 


226 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


All  day  and  night,  all  night  and  day, 
I  sit  in  my  darkened  house  alone  ; 
Come  thou,  whose  laughter  sounds  so 

gay> 

Come   hither,   for   charity  come  !    and 

say 

What  flowers   are   faded,  and   what 
are  blown. 

Does  the  great,  glad  sun,  as  he  used 

to^  rise  ? 

Or  is  it  always  a  weary  night  ? 
A  shadow  has  fallen  across  my  eyes, 
Come    hither   and   tell    me    about   the 

skies,  — 

Are  there  drops  of  rain  ?   are  there 
drops  of  light  ? 

Keep  not,  dear  heart,  so  far  away, 
With  thy  laughter  light  and  laughter 

low, 
But   come    to   my  darkened   house,    I 

pray, 

And    tell   me    what    of    the    fields  to 
day,  — 

Or    lilies,    or    snow  ?    or    lilies,    or 
snow  ? 

Do   the   hulls   of   the  ripe  nuts  hang 

apart  ? 
Do  the  leaves  of  the  locust  drop  in  the 

well  ? 

Or  is  it  the  time  for  the  buds  to  start  ? 
O  gay  little  heart,  O  little  gay  heart, 
Come    hither  and  tell,   come   hither 

and  tell  ! 

The  day  of  my  hope  is  cold  and  dead, 
The    sun  is    down   and  the  light  is 

gone  ; 

Come  hither  thou  of  the  roses  red, 
^i  the  gay,  glad  heart,  and  the  golden 

head, 

And  tell  of  the  dawn,  of  the  dew  and 
the  dawn. 


WAIT. 

Go  not  far  in  the  land  of  light ! 

A  little  while  by  the  golden  gate, 
Lest  that  I  lose  you  out  of  sight, 

Wait,  my  darling,  wait. 

Forever  now  from  your  happy  eyes 
Life's     scenic     picture    has    passed 
away; 


You  have  entered  into  realities, 
And  I  am  yet  at  the  play  ! 

Yet  at  the  play  of  time  —  through  all, 
Thinking  of  you,  and  your  high  es 
tate  ; 
A   little   while,    and    the    curtain   will 

fall  — 
Wait,  my  darling,  wait ! 

Mine  is  a  dreary  part  to  do  — 

A    mask   of    mirth    on    a   mourning 

brow  ; 
The   chance   approval,    the    flower  or 

two, 
Are  nothing —  nothing  now  ! 

The  last  sad  act  is  drawing  on  ; 

A  little  while  by  the  golden  gate 
Of  the  holy  heaven  to  which  you  are 
gone, 

Wait,  my  darling,  wait. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  a  plot  of  ground. 

Once  on  a  time,  as  story  saith, 
All  closed  in  and  closed  round 

With    a    great     wall,    as    black    as 
death. 

I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  break, 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach  ; 

And,  like  a  blush  on  some  fair  cheek, 
The  spring-time  mantling  over  each. 

Sweet     vines     o'erhung,     like     vernal 

floods, 
The   wall,  I    thought,  and  though  I 

spied 

The  glorious  promise  of  the  buds, 
They  only  bloomed  the  other  side. 

Tears,     torments,    darkened     all     my 

ground, 
Yet    Heaven,   by   starts,   above    me 

gleamed  ; 

I  saw,  with  senses  strangely  bound, 
And     in     my     dreaming     knew     I 
dreamed. 

Saying   to  my  heart,  these  things  are 
signs 

Sent  to  instruct  us  that  't  is  ours 
Duly  to  dress  and  keep  our  vines, 

Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 


POEMS   OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


227 


But  when  the  angel,  feared  by  all, 
Across  my  hearth  his  shadow  spread, 

The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Had  bloomed,  the  other  side,  I  said. 


A   WINTRY  WASTE. 

THE   boughs    they  blow   across  the 

pane, 
And   my  heart  is  stirred  with  sudden 

joy, 
For    I    think  't   is    the   shadow  of  my 

boy, 

My  long  lost  boy,  come  home  again 
To  love,  and  to  live  with  me  ; 
And  I  put  the  work  from  off  my  knee, 
And  open  the  door  with  eager  haste  — 
There  lieth  the  cold,  wild  winter  waste, 
And  that  is  all  I  see  ! 

The   boughs    they   drag  against  the 
eaves, 

I  hear  them  early,  I  hear  them  late, 

And  I  think  't  is  the  latch  of  the  door- 
yard  gate. 
Or  a  step  on  the  frozen  leaves. 

And  I  say  to  my  heart,  he  is  slow,  he 
is  slow, 

And    I    call   him  loud  and  I  call  him 
low, 

And     listen,    and    listen,    again    and 
again, 

And  I  see  the  wild  shadows  go  over 
the  pane. 

And  the  dead  leaves,  as  they  fall, 

I  hear,  and  that  is  all. 

But  fancy  only  half  deceives  — 
My  joys  are  counterfeits  of  joy, 
For    I    know  he    never  will  come,  my 

boy  ; 

And     I    see    through    my   make-be 
lieves, 

Only  the  wintry  waste  of  snow, 
Where  he  lieth    so  cold,  and  lieth   so 

low, 

And  so  far  from  the  light  and  me  : 
And  boughs  go  over  the  window-pane, 
And    drag    on    the    lonely    eaves,    in 

vain,  — 
That  waste  is  all  I  see. 


THE  SHADOW. 

IN  vain  the  morning  trims  her  brows, 
A  shadow  all  the  sunshine  shrouds  ; 


The  moon  at  evening  vainly  ploughs 
Her  golden  furrows  in  the  clouds. 

In  vain  the  morn  her  splendor  hath  ; 

The    stars,    in   vain,    their    gracious 

cheer ; 
There  moves  a  phantom  on  my  path, 

A  shapeless  phantom  that  I  fear. 

The  summer  wears  a  weary  smile, 
A  weary  hum  the  woodland  fills  ; 

The  dusty  road  looks  tired  the  while 
It  climbs  along  the  sleepy  hills. 

Still  do  I  strive  to  build  my  song 
Against  this  grim  aggressive  gloom  ; 

0  hope,  I  say,  be  strong,  be  strong  ! 
Some    special,    saving    grace    must 

come. 

1  sit  and  talk  of  sunnier  skies, 

Of    flowers    with    healing    in    their 

gleams, 

But  still  the  shapeless  shadow  flies 
Before  me  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

O  friends  of  mine,  who  sit  dismayed 
And  watch,  I  cry,  with  bated  breath  ; 

Yet  from  their  answering  shrink  afraid, 
Lest   that  they   name   the   name   of 
Death. 


HOW  PEACE  CAME. 

As   the   still    hours    toward    midnight 

wore, 
She  called  to   me  —  her  voice  was 

low 
And    soft    as     snow    that    falls    in 

snow  — 

She    called    my    name,    and    nothing 
more. 

Sleeping,  I  felt  the  life-blood  stir 
With     piercing     anguish     all     my 

heart  — 

I  felt  my  dreams  like  curtains  part, 
And  straightway  passed  through  them 
to  her. 

Yet,  'twixt  my  answer  and  her  call, 
My   thoughts    had   time    enough    to 

run 

Through  everything  that  I  had  done 
From    my   youth    upward.       One   and 
all. 


228 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


The  harmful  words  which  I  had  said  — 
The   sinful    thoughts,  the  looks  un 
true. 
Straight  into  fearful  phantoms  grew, 

And  ranged  themselves  about  her  bed. 

Weeping,    I    called    her    names   most 

sweet, 

But  still  the  phantoms,  evil-eyed, 
Between   us    stood,    and    though    I 

died, 
I  could  not  even  touch  her  feet. 

My  soul  within  me  seemed  to  groan  — 
My    cheek    was     burning    up    with 

shame  — 
I  called  each  dark  deed  by  its  name, 

And  humbly  owned  it  for  my  own. 

My    tongue    was    loosed  —  my    heart 

was  free  — 

I  took  the  little  shining  head 
Betwixt  my  palms  —  the   phantoms 

fled. 

And  Heaven  was  moved,  and  came  to 
me. 


BE  STILL. 

COME,  bring  me  wild  pinks  from   the 
valleys, 

Ablaze  w'ith  the  fire  o'  the  sun  — 
No  poor  little  pitiful  lilies 

That  speak  of  a  life  that  is  done  ! 

And  open  the  windows  to  lighten 
The  wearisome  chamber  of  pain  — 

The  eyes  of  my  darling  will  brighten 
To  see  the  green  hill-tops  again. 

Choose  tunes  with  a  lullaby  flowing, 
And  sing  through  the  watches   you 
keep 

Be  soft  with  your  coming  and  going  — 
Be  soft!  she  is  falling  asleep. 

Ah,   what   would   my   life   be   without 
her! 

Pray  God  that  I  never  may  know  ! 
Dear  friends,  as  you  gather  about  her, 

Be  low  with  your  weeping  —  be  low. 

Be  low,  oh,  be  low  with  your  weep 
ing ! 

Your  sobs  would  be  sorrow  to  her  ; 
I  tremble  lest  while  she  is  sleeping 

A  rose  on  her  pillow  should  stir. 


Sing  slower,  sing  softer  and  slower  ! 

Her  sweet  cheek  is  losing  its  red  — 
Sing  low,  aye,  sing  lower  and  lower  — 

Be  still,  oh,  be  still  !     She  is  dead. 


VANISHED. 

OUT  of  the  wild  and  weary  night 
I  see  the  morning  softly  rise, 
But  oh,  my  lovely,  lovely  eyes  ! 

The  world  is  dim  without  your  light. 

I  see  the  young  buds  break  and  start 
To  fresher  life  when  frosts  are  o'er. 
But    oh,    my    rose-red    mouth  !    no 
more 

Will  kiss  of  yours  delight  my  heart. 

The   worm  that   knows  nor  hope  nor 

trust 
Comes    forth    with    glorious    wings 

dispread, 

But  oh,  my  little  golden  head  ! 
I  see  you  only  in  the  dust. 

I  hear  the  calling  of  the  lark, 

Despite  the  cloud,  despite  the  rain ; 
But   oh,    my  snow-white    hands  I    in 
vain 

I  search  to  find  you  through  the  dark. 

When  the  strong  whirlwind's  rage  is 
o'er, 

A  whisper  bids  the  land  rejoice  ; 

But  oh,  my  gentle,  gentle  voice 
Your  music  gladdens  me  no  more. 

But  though  no  earthly  joy  dispel 

This  gloom  that  fills  my  life  with  woe, 
My  sweetest,  and  my  best  !   I  know 

That  you  are  still  alive  and  well. 

Alive  and  well:  oh,  blissful  thought ! 

In   some   sweet   clime,  I    know  not 
where  ; 

I  only  know  that  you  are  there, 
And  sickness,  pain,  and  death  are  not. 


SAFE. 

AH,  she  was  not  an  angel  to  adore, 
She  was  not  perfect  —  she  was  only 

this  : 

A  woman  to  be  prattled  to,  to  kiss, 
To  praise  with  all  sweet  praises,  and 
before 


POEMS   OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION, 


229 


Whose  face  you  never  were  ashamed 

to  lay 
The  affections  of  your  pride  away. 

I  have  kept  Fancy  traveling  to  and  fro 
Full    many   an    hour,    to    find   what 

name  were  best, 
If  there  were  any  sweeter  than  the 

rest. 
That   I   might  always  call  my  darling 

so; 
And  this  of  woman  seems  to  me  the 

sweetest, 

The  finest,  the  most  gracious,   the 
completest. 

The  dust  she  wore  about  her  I  agree 
Was  poor  and  sickly,  even  to  make 

you  sad, 
But  this  rough  world  we  live  in  never 

had 

An  ornament  more  excellent  than  she  ; 
The   earthly   dress  was  all  so  frail 

that  you 

Could  see  the  beauteous  spirit  shining 
through. 

Not  what  she  was,  but  what  she  was 

to  me 

Is  what  I  fain  would  tell — from  her 
was  drawn 

The  softness  of  the  eve,  the  light  of 
dawn  ; 

With  her  and  for  her  I  could  only  see 
What  things  were   sweet  and   sen 
sible  and  pure  ; 

Now  all  is  dull,  slow  guessing,  nothing 
sure. 

My  sorrow  with   this  comfort  yet  is 

stilled  — 
I  do  not  dread  to  hear  the   winter 

stir 
His  wild  winds  up  —  I  have  no  fear 

for  her  : 
And  all  my  love  could  never  hope  to 

build 
A  place  so  sweet  beneath  heaven's 

arch  of  blue, 
As  she  by  death  has  been  elected  to. 


WAITING. 

AH  yes,  I  see  the  sunshine  play, 
I  hear  the  robin's  cheerful  call, 

But  I  am  thinking  of  the  day 
My  darling  left  me  —  that  is  all. 


I  do  not  grieve  for  her  —  ah  no  ! 

To  her  the  way  is  clear,  I  trust ; 
But  for  myself  I  grieve,  so  low, 

So  weak,  so  in,  and  of  the  dust. 

And  for  my  sadness  I  am  sad  — 
I  would  be  gay  if  so  I  might, 

But  she  was  all  the  joy  I  had  — 

My  life,  my  love,  my  heart's  delight, 

We  came  together  to  the  door 
Of  our  sweet  home  that  is  to  be, 

And  knowing,  she  went  in  before, 
To  put  on  marriage  robes  for  me. 

'T  is  weary  work  to  wait  so  long, 
But  true  love  knows  not  how  to  doubt ; 

God's  wisdom  fashions  seeming  wrong, 
That  we   may  find   right   meanings 
out. 


INTIMATIONS. 

THERE  is  hovering  about  me 

A  power  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 
That  I  know,  despite  my  sorrow, 

We  assuredly  shall  meet. 
I  know,  and  thus  the  darkness 

In  between  us,  is  defied, 
That  death  is  but  a  shadow 

With  the  sunshine  either  side. 

The  world  is  very  weary, 

But  I  never  cease  to  know 
That  still  there  is  a  border-land 

Where  spirits  come  and  go  ; 
For  you  send  me  intimations 

In  the  morning's  gentle  beams, 
And  at  night  you  come  and  meet  me 

In  the  golden  gate  of  dreams. 

I  am  desolate  and  dreary, 

But  mortal  pain  and  doubt 
Are  blessings,  and  our  part  it  is 

To  find  their  meanings  out : 
To  find  their  blessed  meanings, 

And  to  wait  in  hope  and  trust, 
Till  our  gracious  Lord  and  Master 

Shall  redeem  us  from  the  dust. 


THE  GREAT  QUESTION. 

"  How  are  the  dead  raised  up,  and  with  what  body 
do  they  come  ? " 

THE  waves,  they  are  wildly  heaving, 
And  bearing  me  out  from  the  shore, 


230 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


And  I  know  of  the  things  I  am  leaving, 
But  not  of  the  things  before. 

O  Lord  of  love,  whom  the  shape  of  a 

dove 
Came  down  and  hovered  o'er, 

Descend  to-night  with  heavenly  light, 
And  show  me  the  farther  shore. 

There  is  midnight  darkness  o'er  me, 

And  't  is  light,  more  light,  I  crave  ; 
The  billows  behind  and  before  me 

Are  gaping,  each  with  a  grave  : 
Descend  to-night,  O  Lord  of  might, 

Who  died  our  souls  to  save  ; 
Descend  to-night,  my  Lord,  my  Light, 

And  walk  with  me  on  the  wave  ! 

My  heart  is  heavy  to  breaking 

Because  of  the  mourners'  sighs, 
For  they  cannot  see  the  awak'ning, 

Nor  the  body  with  which  we  arise. 
Thou,  who  for  sake  of  men  didst  break 

The  awful  seal  of  the  tomb  — 
Show  them  the  way  into  life,  I  pray, 

And  the  body  with  which  we  come  ! 


Comfort  their  pain  and  pining 

For  the  nearly  wasted  sands, 
With  the  many  mansions  shining 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands  : 
And  help  them  by  faith  to  see  through 
death 

To  that  brighter  and  better  shore, 
Where  they  never  shall  weep  who  are 
fallen  asleep 

And  never  be  sick  any  more. 


WHAT   comfort,  when  with  clouds  of 

woe 
The    heart   is   burdened,    and   must 

weep, 

To  feel  that  pain  must  end,  —  to  know, 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

When  in  the  mid-day  marcl^  we  meet 
The   outstretched    shadows    of    the 
night, 

The  promise,  how  divinely  sweet, 
"  At  even-time  it  shall  be  light." 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


THANKSGIVING. 

FOR   the   sharp   conflicts   I  have    had 

with  sin, 
Wherein, 

I  have  been  wedged  and  pressed 
Nigh  unto    death,   I    thank  thee,  with 

the  rest 
Of  my   befallings,    Lord,    of    brighter 

guise, 

And  named  by  mortals,  good, 
Which  to  my  hungry  heart  have  given 

food, 
Or  costly  entertainment  to  my  eyes. 

For  I  can  only  see, 
With  spirit  truly  reconciled  to  thee, 
In  the   sad   evils  with   our   lives   that 
blend, 

A  means,  and  not  an  end  : 

Since  thou  wert  free 
To  do   thy  will  —  knewest   the   bitter 

worth 
Of  sin,  and  all  its  possibility, 

Ere  that,  by  thy  decree, 
The  ancient  silence  of  eternity 
Was   broken   by  the   music   of   man's 
birth. 

Therefore  I  lay  my  brows 
Discrowned  of  youth,  within  thy  gra 
cious  hands, 
Or  rise  while  daybreak  dew  is  on  the 

boughs 
To  strew  thy  road  with  sweets,  for  thy 

commands 

Do  make  the  current  of  my  life  to  run 
Through  lost  and  cavernous  ways, 
Bordered  with  cloudy  days, 
In  its  slow  working  out  into  the  sun. 


Hills,  clap  your  hands,  and  all  ye  mount 
ains,  shout : 
Hie,  fainting  hart,  to  where  the  waters 

flow  ; 
Children  of  men,  pui;  off  your  fear  and 

doubt ; 
The  Lord  who  chasteneth,  loveth  you, 

for,  lo  ! 
The   wild    herb's   wounded    stalk    He 

cares  about, 
And  shields  the  ravens  when  the  rough 

winds  blow  ; 
He  sendeth  down  the  drop  of  shining 

dew 
To  light  the  daisy  from  her  house 

of  death, 
And  shall  He,  then,  forget  the  like  of 

you, 
O  ye,  of  little  faith  ! 

He  speaketh   to  the  willing  soul  and 

heart 
By  dreams,  and  in  the  visions  of  the 

night, 
And  happy  is  the  man  who,  for  his  part, 

Rejoiceth  in  the  light 
Of  all  his  revelations,  whether  found 
In  the  old  books,  so  sacredly  upbound, 
And    clasped   with    golden    clasps,    or 

whether  writ 
Through    later    instillations    of    his 

power. 

Where  he  that  runneth  still  perceiveth  it 
Illuminating  every  humble  flower 
That  springe th  from  the  ground. 

His  testimony  all  the  time  is  sure  ; 
The  smallest  star  that  keepeth  in  the 

night 

His  silver  candle  bright, 
And  every  deed  of  good  that  anywhere 


232 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Maketh  the  hands  of  holy  women  white  ; 
All   sweet   religious  work,  all   earnest 

prayer, 

Of  uttered,  or  unutterable  speech  ; 
Whatever  things   are    peaceable    and 

pure, 

Whatever  tilings  are  right, 
These  are  his  witnesses,  aye,  all  and 

each  ! 

Thrice  happy  is  the  man  who  doth 
obey 

The  Lord  of  love,  through  love  ;  who 
fears  to  break 

The  righteous  law  for  th'  law's  right 
eous  sake  ; 

And  who,  by  daily  use  of  blessings, 
gives 

Thanks  for  the  daily  blessings  he  re 
ceives  ; 

His  spirit  grown  so  reverent,  it  dares 

Cast  the  poor  shows  of  reverence  away, 
Believing  they 

More  glorify  the  Giver,  who  partake 

Of  his  good  gifts,  than  they  who  fast 
and  make 

Burnt  offerings  and  Pharisaic  prayers. 

The  wintry  snows  that  blind 

The  air,  and  blight  what  things  were 
glorified 

By  summer's  reign,  we  do  not  think 
unkind 

When  that  we  see  them  changed,  afar 
and  wide, 

To  rain,  that,  fretting  in  the  rose's  face, 
Brings  out  a  softer  grace, 

And  makes  the  troops  of  rustic  daffo 
dils 

Shake  out  their  yellow  skirts  along  the 
hills, 

And  all  the  valleys  blush  from  side  to 
side. 

And  as  we  climb  the  stair, 
Of  rough  and  ugly  fortune,  by  the  props 
Of   faith    and    charity,   and    hope    and 

prayer, 

To  the  serene  and  beauteous  mountain- 
tops 

Of  our  best  human  possibility, 
Where  haunts  the  spirit  of  eternity, 
The  world  below  looks  fair,  — 
Its  seeming  inequalities  subdued, 
And  level,  all,  to  purposes  of  good. 

I  thank  thee,  gracious  Lord, 
For  the  divine  award 


Of  strength  that  helps  me  up  the  heavy 

heights 
Of  mortal  sorrow,  where,  through  tears 

forlorn, 
My  eyes  get  glimpses  of  the  authentic 

lights 
Of  love's  eternal  morn. 

For  thereby  do  I  trust 
That  our  afflictions   springs  not  from 

the  dust, 

And  that  they  are  not  sent 
In  arbitrary  chastisement, 
Nor  as  avengers  to  put  out  the  light 
And  let  our  souls  loose  in  some  damned 

night 
That  holds  the  balance  of   thy  glory, 

just ; 
But   rather,  that  as   lessons   they  are 

meant, 

And  as  the  fire  tempers  the  iron,  so 
Are  we  refined  by  woe. 

I  thank  thee  for  my  common  blessings, 

still 

Rained  through  thy  will 
Upon  my  head  ;  the  air 
That  knows  so  many  tunes  which  grief 

beguile. 
Breathing  its  light  love  to  me  every. 

where, 
And  that  will  still  be  kissing  all  tru 

while, 

I  thank  thee  that  my  childhood's  van 
ished  days 
Were  cast  in  rural  ways, 

Where  I    beheld,  with   gladness   evei 

new, 
That  sort  of  vagrant  dew 

Which  lodges  in  the  .beggarly  tents  of 
such 

Vile  weeds  as  virtuous  plants  disdain  to 
touch, 

And   with    rough-bearded   burs,   night 
after  night, 

Upgathered  by  the  morning,  tender  and 

true, 
Into  her  clear,  chaste  light. 

Such  ways  I  learned  to  know 
That  free  will  cannot  go 
Outside   of  mercy ;    learned   to   bless 

his  name 

Whose  revelations,  ever  thus  renewed 
Along    the   varied   year,    in  field   and 

wood, 
His  loving  care  proclaim. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


233 


I  thank  thee  that  the  grass  and  the  red 

rose 
Do  what  they  can  to  tell 

How  spirit  through  all  forms  of  matter 
flows  ; 

For  every  thistle  by  the  common  way 

Wearing  its  homely  beauty,  —  for  each 
spring 

That    sweet    and    homeless,    runneth 

where  it  will, — 
For  night  and  day, 

For   the    alternate    seasons,  —  every 
thing 

Pertaining  to  life's  marvelous   miracle. 

Even  for  the  lowly  flower 
That,  living,  dwarfed  and  bent 
Under  some   beetling   rock,  in  gloom 

profound, 
Far  from    her    pretty   sisters   of    the 

ground, 

And  shut  from  sun  and  shower, 
Seemeth  endowed  with  human  discon 
tent. 

Ah  !  what  a  tender  hold 
She  taketh  of  us  in  our  own  despite,  — 
A  sadly-solemn  creature, 
Crooked,  despoiled  of  nature, 
Leaning  from  out  the  shadows,  dull  and 

cold, 

To   lay  her  little   white   face    in    the 
light. 

The  chopper  going  by  her  rude  abode, 
Thinks  of  his  own  rough  hut,  his  old 

wife's  smile, 

And  of  the  bare  young  feet 
That  run  through  th'  frost  to  meet 
His  coming,  and  forgets  the  weary  load 
Of  sticks  that  bends  his  shoulders  down 
the  while. 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  Nature  is  so 

wise, 

So  capable  of  painting  in  men's  eyes 
Pictures  whose  airy  hues 
Do  blend  and  interfuse 
With  all   the  darkness  that  about   us 

lies,  — 

That  clearly  in  our  hearts 
Her  law  she  writes, 

Reserving  cunning  past  our  mortal  arts, 
Whereby   she    is    avenged  for  all  her 
slights. 

And  I  would  make  thanksgiving 
For  the  sweet,  double  living, 


That    gives   the   pleasures   that   have 

passed  away, 
The   sweetness   and   the   sunshine   of 

to-day. 

I   see   the  furrows  ploughed  and  see 

them  planted, 
See  the  young  cornstalks  rising  green 

and  fair  ; 

Mute  things  are  friendly,  and  I  am  ac 
quainted 
With  all  the  luminous  creatures  of 

the  air  ; 
And   with  the  cunning  workers  of  the 

ground 
That   have    their   trades    born    with 

them,  and  with  all 
The  insects,  large  and  small, 
That  fill  the    summer  with  a  wave  of 

sound. 

I  watch  the  wood-bird  line 
Her  pretty  nest,  with  eyes  that  never 

tire, 
And  watch    the    sunbeams   trail   their 

wisps  of  fire 

Along  the  bloomless  bushes,  till  they 
shine. 

The  violet,  gathering   up   her   tender 

blue 
From  th'  dull  ground,  is  a  good  sight 

to  see  ; 

And  it  delighteth  me 
To  have  the  mushroom  push  his  round 

head  through 

The  dry  and  brittle  stubble,  as  I  pass, 
His  smooth  and  shining  coat,  half  rose 

half  fawn, 
But  just  put  on  ; 
And  to  have  April  slip  her  showery 

grass 

Under  my  feet,  as  she  was  used  to  do, 
In  the  dear  spring-times  gone. 

I  make  the  brook,  my  Nile, 
And  hour  by  hour  beguile, 
Tracking  its  devious  course 
Through  briery  banks  to  its  mysterious 

source, 
That  I  discover,  always,  at  my  will,  — 

A  little  silver  star, 
Under  the  shaggy  forehead  of  some 

hill, 
From  traveled  ways  afar. 

Forgetting  wind  and  flood, 
I  build  my  house  of  unsubstantial  sand, 
Shaping  the  roof  upon  my  double  hand, 


234 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And    setting   up   the    dry   and    sliding 

grains, 

With  infinite  pains, 
In  the  similitude 
Of  beam  and  rafter,  —  then 
Where  to  the  ground  the  dock  its  broad 

leaf  crooks, 
I  hunt  long  whiles  to  find  the  little 

men 
That  I  have  read  of  in  my  story-books. 

Often,  in  lawless  wise, 
Some  obvious  work  of  duty  I  delay, 

Taking  my  fill 

Of  an  uneasy  liberty,  and  still 

Close  shutting  up  my  eyes, 
As  though  it  were  not  given  me   to 

see 
The  avenging  ghost  of  opportunity 

Thus  slighted,  far  away. 

I  linger  when  I  know 
That  I  should  forward  go ; 
Now,  haply  for  the  katydid's  wild  shrill, 

Now  listening  to  the  low, 
Dull  noise  of   mill-wheels  —  counting, 

now,  the  row 

Of  clouds  about  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill. 

My  heart  anew  rejoices 
In  th'  old  familiar  voices 
That   come   back   to   me   like  a  lulla 
by  ; 

Now  ?t  is  the  church-bell's  call, 
And  now  a  teamster's  whistle,  —  now, 

perhaps, 

The  silvery  lapse 
Of  waters   in   among   the   reeds    that 

meet  ; 
And  now,  down-dropping  to  a  whis- 

pery  fall, 
Some    milkmaid,    chiding   with    love's 

privilege, 

Through  the  green  wall 

Of  the  dividing  hedge, 

And  the  so  sadly  eloquent  reply 

Of    the   belated    cow-boy,   low   and 
sweet. 

I  see,  as  in  a  dream, 

The  farmer  plodding  home  behind 

his  team, 

With  all  the  tired  shadows  following, 
And  see  him  standing  in  his  threshing- 
floor, 

The  hungry  cattle  gathered  in  a  ring 
About  the  great  barn-door. 


I  see  him  in  the  sowing, 
And  see  him  in  the  mowing, 
The  air   about   him    thick    with   gray- 
winged  moths  ; 
The  day's  work  nearly  over, 
And    the    long   meadow  'ridged   with 

double  swaths 
Of  sunset-light  and  clover. 

When  falls  the  time  of  solemn  Sabbath 

rest, 

In  all  he  has  of  best 
I  see  him  going  (for  he  never  fails) 
To  church,  in  either  equitable  hand 
A  shining  little  one,  and  all  his  band 
Trooping   about  him    like    a   flock    of 

quails. 
With  necks  bowed  low,  and  hid  to  half 

their  length 

Under  the  jutting  load  of  new-made  hay, 
I  see  the  oxen  give  their  liberal  strength 
Day  after  clay, 
And  see  the  mower  stay 
His  scythe,  and  leave  a  patch  of  grass 

to  spread 

Its  shelter  round  the  bed 
Of  the  poor  frighted  ground-bird  in  his 
way. 

I  see  the  joyous  vine, 
And  see  the  wheat  set  up  its  rustling 

spears, 
And  see  the  sun  with  golden  fingers 

sign 
The  promise  of  full  ears. 

I  see  the  slender  moon 

Time  after  time  grow  old  and  round  in 
th'  face, 

And   see   the   autumn    take   the    sum 
mer's  place, 
And  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 

In  their  thick,  bitter  hulls  of  green  and 
brown, 

To  make  the   periods   of   the    school 
boy's  tune  ; 

I    see    the    apples,  with    their   russet 

cheeks 
Shaming  the  wealth  of  June  ; 

And  see  the  bean-pods,  gay  with  pur 
ple  freaks, 

And  all  the  hills  with  yellow  leaves  o'er- 
blown, 

As  through  the  fading  woods   I  walk 

alone, 
And  hear  the  wind  o'erhead 

Touching  the  joyless  boughs  and  mak 
ing  moan, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


235 


Like  some  old  crone, 
Who  on  her  withered   fingers   counts 
her  dead. 

I   hear  the  beetle's  hum,  and  see  the 

gnats 
Sagging  along   the    air   in    strings    of 

jet, 

And  from  their  stubs  I  see  the  weak- 
eyed  bats 
Flying  an  hour  before  the  sun  is  set. 

Picture  on  picture  crowds, 
And  by  the  gray  and  priestlike  silence 

led, 
Comes  the  first  star  through  evening's 

steely  gates 

And  chides  the  day  to  bed 
Within     the     ruddy    curtains    of     the 

clouds  ; 

So  gently  com'st  thou,  Death, 
To  him  who  waits, 

In  the  assurance  of  our  blessed  faith, 
To  be  acquainted  with  thy  quiet  arms, 
His  good  deeds,  great  and  small, 
Builded   about   him  like    a   silver 

wall, 
And  bearing  back  the  deluge  of  alarms. 

The  mother  doth  not  tenderer  appear 
When,  from  her  heart  her  tired  darling 

laid, 
She  trims  his   cradle    all    about  with 

shade, 
And  will  not  kiss  his  sleepy  eyes  for 

fear. 

I  see  the  windows   of  the  homestead 

bright 

With  the  warm  evening  light, 
And  by  the  winter  fire 
I  see  the  gray-haired  sire 
Serenely  sitting, 

Forgetful  of  the  work-day  toil  and  care, 
The  old  wife  by  his  elbow,  at  her  knit 
ting  ; 

The  cricket  on  the  hearth-stone  sing 
ing  shrill, 
And  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  house  at 

will 

Climbing  the  good  man's  chair, 
A  furtive  glimpse  to  catch 
Of   her   fair   face    in  his    round  silver 

watch, 
That   she  in  her  high   privilege  must 

wear, 
And  listen  to  the  music  that  is  in 

it, 
Though  only  for  a  minute. 


I  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  every  saddest 

cross  ; 

Gain  comes  to  us  through  loss, 
The  while  we  go, 
Blind  travelers  holding  by  the  wall  of 

time, 

And  seeking  out  through  woe 
The  things  that  are  eternal  and  sublime. 

Ah  !    sad   are   they  of  whom  no  poet 
writes 

Nor  ever  any  story-teller  hears,  — 

The   childless  mothers,  who  on  lone 
some  nights 

Sit  by  their  fires  and  weep,  having  the 
chores 

Done  for  the  day,  and  time  enough  to 

see 
All  the  wide  floors 

Swept  clean   of  playthings ;    they,    as 

needs  must  be, 
Have  time  enough  for  tears. 

But  there  are  griefs  more  sad 
Than  ever  any  childless  mother  had,  — 
You  know  them,  who  do  smother  Nat 
ure's  cries 
Under  poor  masks 
Of  smiling,  slow  despair,  — 
Who   put  your  white  and  unadorning 

hair 
Out  of  your  way,  and  keep  at  homely 

tasks, 

Unblest  with  any  praises  of  men's  eyes, 
Till  Death  comes  to  you  with  his  pit 
eous  care, 

And  to  unmarriageable  beds  you  go, 
Saying,  "  It  is  not  much  ;  't  is  well,  if  so 

We  only  be  made  fair 
And  looks  of  love  await  us  when  we 
rise." 

My  cross  is  not  as  hard  as  theirs  to 
bear, 

And   yet   alike    to  me   are  storms,  or 

calms  ; 

My  life's  young  joy, 
The  brown-cheeked  farmer-boy, 

Who  led  the  daisies  with  him  like  his 
lambs,  — 

Carved  his  sweet  picture  on  my  milk- 
ing-pail, 

And  cut  my  name  upon  his  threshing- 
flail, 

One  clay  stopped  singing  at  his  plough  ; 
alas  ! 

Before  that  summer-time  was  gone,  the 
grass 


236 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Had    choked   the   path   which   to   the 

sheep-field  led, 

Where  I  had  watched  him  tread 
So  oft  on  evening's  trail,  — 
A   shining  oat-sheaf   balanced  on  his 

head, 
And  nodding  to  the  gale. 

Rough  wintry  weather  came,  and  when 

it  sped, 

The  emerald  wave 
Swelling  above  my  little   sweetheart's 

grave, 
With  such  bright,  bubbly  flowers  was 

set  about, 

I  thought  he  blew  them  out, 
And  so  took  comfort  that  he  was  not 

dead. 

For    I    was   of    a   rude   and    ignorant 

crew, 
And  hence  believed  whatever  things  I 

saw 

Were  the  expression  of  a  hidden  law ; 
And,  with  a  wisdom  wiser  than  I  knew, 
Evoked  the  simple  meanings    out 

of  things 
By  childlike  questionings. 

And  he  they  named  with  shudderings 

of  fear 
Had    never,   in   his  life,  been  half  so 

near 
As  when  I  sat  all  day  with  cheeks  un- 

kissed, 

And  listened  to  the  whisper,  very  low, 
That  said  our  love  above  death's  wave 

of  woe 
Was  joined  together  like  the  seamless 

mist. 

God's  yea  and  nay 
Are  not  so  far  away, 
I    said,  but  I    can  hear  them  when  I 

please  ; 

Nor  could  I  understand 
Their  doubting  faith,  who   only  touch 

his  hand 
Across    the   blind,  bewildering   centu- 


And  often  yet,  upon  the  shining  track 
Of  the  old  faith,  come  back 

My  childish  fancies,  never  quite  sub 
dued  ; 

And  when  the  sunset  shuts  up  in  the 
wood 

The  whispery  sweetness  of  uncertainty, 


And     Night,    with    misty    locks    that 

loosely  drop 
About  his  ears,  brings  rest,  a  welcome 

boon, 
Playing  his  pipe  with   many  a   starry 

stop 
That  makes  a  golden   snarling  in  his 

tune  ; 

I  see  my  little  lad 

Under  the  leafy  shelter  of  the  boughs, 
Driving  his  noiseless,  visionary  cows, 
Clad  in  a  beauty  I  alone  can  see  : 

Laugh,  you,  who  never  had 
Your  dead  come  back,  but  do  not  take 

from  me 
The    harmless    comfort   of    my  foolish 

dream, 

That  these,  our  mortal  eyes, 
|  Which  outwardly  reflect  th*  earth  and 

skies 
Do  introvert  upon  eternity : 

And  that  the  shapes  you  deem 
Imaginations,  just  as  clearly  fall  ; 
Each  from  its  own  divine  original, 
And  through  some    subtle  element   of 

light, 

Upon  the  inward,  spiritual  eye, 
As   do   the  things  which  round  about 

them  lie, 
Gross   and   material,   on   the   external 

sight. 


HOPE  in  our  hearts  doth  only  stay 

Like  a  traveler  at  an  inn, 
Who  riseth  up  at  the  break  of  day 

His  journey  to  begin. 

Faith,  when  her  soul  has  known  the 
blight 

Of  noisy  doubts  and  fears, 
Goes  thenceforward  clad  in  the  light 

Of  the  still  eternal  years. 

Truth  is  truth  :  no  more  in  the  prayers 

Of  the  righteous  Pharisee  ; 
No   less  in   the    humblest   sinner  that 
wears 

This  poor  mortality. 

But  Love  is  greatest  of  all :  no  loss 
Can  shadow  its  face  with  gloom,  — 

As  glorious  hanging  on  the  cross 
As  breaking  out  of  the  tomb. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS 


HYMNS. 


237 


MORNING. 

WAKE,  Dillie,  my  darling,  and  kiss  me, 

The  daybreak  is  nigh,  — 
I  can  see,  through  the  half-open  cur 
tain, 

A  strip  of  blue  sky. 

Yon  lake,  in  her  valley-bed  lying, 

Looks  fair  as  a  bride, 
And  pushes,  to  greet  the  sun's  coming, 

The  mist  sheets  aside. 

The  birds,  to  the  wood-temple  flying, 

Their  matins  to  chant, 
Are  chirping  their  love  to  each  other, 

With  wings  dropt  aslant. 

Not  a  tree,  that  the  morning's  bright 
edges 

With  silver  illumes, 
But  trembles  and  stirs  with  its  pleasure 

Through  all  its  green  plumes. 

Wake,  Dillie,  and  join  in  the  praises 

All  nature  doth  give  ; 
Clap  hands,  and  rejoice  in  the   good 
ness 

That  leaves  you  to  live. 

For  what  is  the  world  in  her  glory 

To  that  which  thou  art  ? 
Thank  God  for   the    soul   that    is    in 
you,  — 

Thank  God  for  your  heart ! 

The  world  that  had  never  a  lover 

Her  bright  face  to  kiss,  — 
With   her  splendors   of   stars  and  of 
noontides 

How  poor  is  her  bliss  ! 

Wake,    Dillie,  —  the    white     vest     of 

morning 

With  crimson  is  laced  ; 
And   why   should    delights    of    God's 

giving 
Be  running  to  waste  ! 

Full     measures,     pressed     down,    are 
awaiting 

Our  provident  use  ; 
And  is  there  no  sin  in  neglecting 

As  well  as  abuse  ? 

The  cornstalk  exults  in  its  tassel, 
The  flint  in  its  spark,  — 


And  shall  the  seed  planted  within  me 
Rot  out  in  the  dark  ? 

Shall  I  be  ashamed  to  give  culture 

To  what  God  has  sown  ? 
When  nature  asks  bread,  shall  I  offer 

A  serpent,  or  stone  ? 

For  could  I  out- weary  its  yearnings 

By  fasting,  or  pain,  — 
Would  life  have  a  better  fulfillment, 

Or  death  have  a  gain  ? 

Nay,  God  will  not  leave  us  unanswered 

In  any  true  need  ; 
His  will  may  be  writ  in  an  instinct, 

As  well  as  a  creed. 

And,  Dillie,  my  darling,  believe  me, 

That  life  is  the  best, 
That,  loving  here,  truly  and  sweetly, 

With  Him  leaves  the  rest. 

Its  head  to  the  sweep  of  the  whirlwind 

The  wise  willow  suits,  — 
While  the  oak,  that 's  too  stubborn  for 
bending. 

Comes  up  by  the  roots. 

Such  lessons,  each  day,  round  about  us, 
Our  good  Mother  writes,  — 

To  show  us  that  Nature,  in  some  way, 
Avenges  her  slights. 


ONE  DUST. 

THOU,  under  Satan's  fierce  control, 
Shall  Heaven  its  final  rest  bestow  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  soul 
That  might  have  fallen  as  darkly  low. 

I  judge  thee  not,  what  depths  of  ill 
Soe'er  thy  feet  have  found,  or  trod  ; 

I  know  a  spirit  and  a  will 
As  weak,  but  for  the  grace  of  God. 

Shalt  thou  with  full-day  laborers  stand, 
Who  hardly  canst  have  pruned  one 
vine  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  hand 
With  an  infirmity  like  thine. 

Shalt  thou  who  hast  with  scoffers  part, 
E'er  wear  the  crown    the    Christian 
wears  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  heart 
As  flinty,  but  for  tears  and  prayers. 


233 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Have  mercy,  O  thou  Crucified  ! 

For  even  while  I  name  thy  name, 
I    know   a    tongue    that    might    have 

lied 

Like    Peter's,  and   am   bowed    with 
shame. 

Fighters    of   good   fights,  —  just,   un 
just,  - 

*  The   weak  who  faint,  the  frail  who 
fall,  - 

Of  one  blood,  of  the  self-same  dust, 
Thou,  God  of  love,  hast  made  them 
all. 


SIGNS  OF  GRACE. 

COME  thou,  my  heavy  soul,  and  lay 

Thy  sorrows  all  aside, 
And  let  us  see,  if  so  we  may, 

How  God  is  glorified. 

Forget  the  storms  that  darkly  beat, 

Forget  the  woe  and  crime, 
And  tie  of  consolations  sweet 

A  posie  for  the  time. 

Some  blessed  token  everywhere 

Doth  grace  to  men  allow  ; 
The  daisy  sets  her  silver  share 

Beside  the  rustic's  plough. 

The  wintry  wind  that  naked  strips 

The  bushes,  stoopeth  low, 
And  round  their  rugged  arms  enwraps 

The  fleeces  of  the  snow. 

The  blackbird,  idly  whistling  till 

The  storm  begins  to  pour, 
Finds  ever  with  his  golden  bill 

A  hospitable  door. 

From  love,  and  love's  protecting  power 

We  cannot  go  apart  ; 
The  shadows  round  the  fainting  flower 

Rebuke  the  drooping  heart. 

Our  strivings  are  not  reckoned  less, 

Although  we  fail  to  win  ; 
The  lily  wears  a  royal  dress, 

And  yet  she  doth  not  spin. 

So,  soul,  forget  thy  evil  days, 

Thy  sorrow  lay  aside, 
And  strive  to  see  in  all  his  ways 

How  God  is  glorified. 


JANUARY. 

THE  year  has  lost  its  leaves  again, 
The  world  looks  old  and  grim ; 

God  folds  his  robe  of  glory  thus, 
That  we  may  see  but  Him. 

I   And  all  his  stormy  messengers, 

That  come  with  whirlwind  breath, 
Beat  out  our  chaff  of  vanity, 
And  leave  the  grains  of  faith. 

We  will  not  feel,  while  summer  waits 
Her  rich  delights  to  share, 
What  sinners,  miserably  bad,  — 
How  weak  and  poor  we  are. 

We   tread  through  fields  of  speckled 
flowers 

As  if  we  did  not  know 
Our  Father  made*  them  beautiful, 

Because  He  loves  us  so. 

We  hold  his  splendors  in  our  hands 

As  if  we  held  the  dust, 
And  deal  his  judgment,  as  if  man 

Than  God  could  be  more  just. 

We  seek,  in  prayers  and  penances, 

To  do  the  martyr's  part, 
Remembering  not,  the  promises 

Are  to  the  pure  in  heart. 

From  evil  and  forbidden  things, 
Some  good  wre  think  to  win, 

And  to  the  last  analysis 
Experiment  with  sin. 

We  seek  no  oil  in  summer  time 

Our  winter  lamp  to  trim, 
But  strive  to  bring  God  down  to  us, 

More  than  to  rise  to  Him. 

And  when  that  He  is  nearest,  most 
Our  weak  complaints  we  raise, 

Lacking  the  wisdom  to  perceive 
The  mystery  of  his  ways. 

For,  when  drawn  closest  to  himself, 
Then  least  his  love  we  mark ; 

The  very  wings  that  shelter  us 
From  peril,  make  it  dark. 

Sometimes  He  takes  his  hands  from  us, 
When  storms  the  loudest  blow, 

That  we  may  learn  how  weak,  alone,  — 
How  strong  in  Him,  we  grow. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


239 


Through   the   cross   iron   of  our  free 
will 

And  fate,  we  plead  for  light, 
As  if  God  gave  us  not  enough 

To  do  our  work  aright. 

We  will  not  see,  but  madly  take 
The  wrong  and  crooked  path, 

And  in  our  own  hearts  light  the  fires 
Of  a  consuming  wrath. 

The  fashion  of  his  Providence 

Our  way  is  so  above, 
We   serve    Him   most   who   take   the 
most 

Of  his  exhaustless  love. 

We  serve  Him  in  the  good  we  do, 
The  blessings  we  embrace, 

Not  lighting  farthing  candles  for 
The  palace  of  his  grace. 

He  has  no  need  of  our  poor  aid 

His  purpose  to  pursue  ; 
'T  is  for  our  pleasure,  not  for  his, 

That  we  his  work  must  do. 

Then  blow,  O  wild  winds,  as  ye  list, 
And  let  the  world  look  grim,  — 

God  folds  his  robe  of  glory  thus 
That  we  may  see  but  Him. 


ALONE. 

WHAT  shall  I  do  when  I  stand  in  my 

place, 
Unclothed  of  this  garment  of  cloud 

and  dust, 
Unclothed  of  this  garment  of  selfish 

lust, 
With  my  Maker,  face  to  face  ? 

What  shall  I  say  for  my  worldly  pride  ? 
What  for  the  things  I  have  done  and 

not  done  ? 
There  will  be  no  cloud  then  over  the 

sun, 
And  no  grave  wherein  to  hide. 

No    time    for    waiting,   no    time     for 

prayer,  — 
No  friend  that  with  me  my  life-path 

trod 
To  help  me,  —  only  my  soul  and  my 

God, 
And  all  my  sins  laid  bare. 


No   dear  human    pity,  no   low  loving 

speech, 
About  me  that  terrible  day  shall  there 

be, 

Remitted  back  into  myself,  I  shall  see 
All  sweetest  things  out  of  reach. 

But  why  should  I  tremble  before  th' 

unknown, 
And  put  off  the  blushing  and  shame  ? 

Now,  —  to-day  ! 
The  friend  close   beside  me  seems 

far,  far  away, 
And  I  stand  at  God's  judgment  alone  J 


A   PRAYER. 

I  HAVE  been  little  used  to  frame 
Wishes  to  speech  and  call  it  prayer ; 

To-day,  my  Father,  in  thy  name, 
I  ask  to  have  my  soul  stript  bare 

Of  all  its  vain  pretense,  —  to  see 

Myself,  as  I  am  seen  by  thee. 

I  want  to  know  how  much  the  pain 

And  passion  here,  its  powers  abate  ; 
To  take  its  thoughts,  a  tangled  skein, 
And  stretch  them  out  all  smooth  and 

straight  ; 
To  track  its  wavering  course  through 

sin 
And  sorrow,  to  its  origin. 

I  want  to  know  if  in  the  night 
Of  evil,  grace  cloth  so  abound, 

That  from  its  darkness  we  draw  light, 
As     flowers    do    beauty    from     the 
ground  ; 

Or,  if  the  sins  of  time  shall  be 

The  shadows  of  eternity. 

I  want,  though  only  for  an  hour, 
To  be  myself,  —  to  get  more  near 

The  wondrous  mystery  and  power 
Of  love,  whose  echoes  floating  here, 

Between  us  and  the  waiting  grave, 

Make  all  of  light,  of  heaven,  we  have. 


COUNSEL. 

THOUGH  sin  hath  marked  thy  brother's 
brow 

Love  him  in  sin's  despite, 
But  for  his  darkness,  haply  thou 

Hadst  never  known  the  light. 


240 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Be  thou  an  angel  to  his  life, 

And  not  a  demon  grim, — 
Since  with  himself  he  is  at  strife, 

Oh  be  at  peace  with  him. 

Speak  gently  of  his  evil  ways 

And  all  his  pleas  allow, 
For  since  he  knows  not  why  he  strays 

From  virtue,  how  shouldst  thou  ? 

Love  him,  though  all  thy  love  he  slights, 

For  ah,  thou  canst  not  say 
But  that  his  prayerless  days  and  nights 

Have  taught  thee  how  to  pray. 

Outside    themselves    all   things    have 
laws, 

The  atom  and  the  sun,  — 
Thou  art  thyself,  perhaps,  the  cause 

Of  sins  which  he  has  done. 

If  guiltless  thou,  why  surely  then 

Thy  place  is  by  his  side,  — 
It  was  for  sinners,  not  just  men, 

That  Christ  the  Saviour  died. 


SUPPLICATION. 

DEAR  gracious  Lord,  if  that  thy  pain 
Doth  make  me  well,  if  I  have  strayed 
Past  mercy,  let  my  hands  be  laid 

One  in  the  other ;   not  in  vain 

Would    I    be   dressed,  Lord,  in  the 

beauteous  clay 
Which  thou  did'st  put  away. 

But  if  thou  yet  canst  find  in  me 

A    vine,     though     trailing    on     the 

ground, 
That  might  be  straightened  up,  and 

bound 
To  any  good,  so  let  it  be  ; 

And,  haply  at  the  last,  some  tendril- 
ring 
Unto  thy  hand  shall  cling. 

I  have  been  too  much  used,  I  know, 

To  tell  my  needs  in  fretful  words. 

The  clamoring  of  the  silly  birds, 
Impatient  for  their  wings  to  grow, 

Has  thy  forgiveness  ;  O  my  blessed 
Lord, 

The  like  to  me  accord. 

Of  grace,  as  much  as  will  complete 
Thy  will  in  me,  I  pray  thee  for  ; 


Even  as  a  rose  shut  in  a  drawer, 
That  maketh  all  about  it  sweet, 

I  would   be,  rather   than  the  cedar, 

fine, 
Help  me,  thou  Power  divine. 

Fill  thou  my  heart  with  love  as  full 

As  any  lily  with  the  rain  ; 

Unteach  me  ever  to  complain, 
And  make  my  scarlet  sins  as  wool ; 

Yea,  wash  me,  even  with   sorrows, 
clean  and  fair, 

As  lightnings  do  the  air. 


PUTTING  OFF  THE   ARMOR. 

WHY  weep  ye  for  the  falling 

Of  the  transient  twilight  gloom  ? 

I  am  weary  of  the  journey, 
And  have  come  in  sight  of  home. 

I  can  see  a  white  procession 

Sweep  melodiously  along, 
And  I  would  not  have  your  mourning 

Drown  the  sweetness  of  their  song. 

The  battle-strife  is  ended  ; 

I  have  scaled  the  hindering  wall, 
And  am  putting  off  the  armor 

Of  the  soldier  —  that  is  all ! 

Would  you   hide   me   from  my  pleas 
ures  ? 

Would  you  hold  me  from  my  rest  ? 
From  my  serving  and  my  waiting 

I  am  called  to  be  a  guest ! 

|   Of  its  heavy,  hurtful  burdens 
Now  my  spirit  is  released  : 
I  am  done  with  fasts  and  scourges, 
And  am  bidden  to  the  feast. 

While  you  see  the  sun  descending, 
While  you  lose  me  in  the  night, 

Lo,  the  heavenly  morn  is  breaking, 
And  my  soul  is  in  the  light. 

I  from  faith  to  sight  am  rising 

While  in  deeps  of  doubt  you  sink  ; 

'T  is  the  glory  that  divides  us, 
Not  the  darkness,  as  you  think. 

Then  lift  up  your  drooping  eyelids, 
And  take  heart  of  better  cheer  ; 

'T  is  the  cloud  of  coming  spirits 
Makes  the  shadows  that  ye  fear. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


241 


Oh,  they  come  to  bear  me  upward 
To  the  mansion  of  the  sky, 

And  to  change  as  I  am  changing 
Is  to  live,  and  not  to  die  ; 

Is  to  leave  the  pain,  the  sickness, 
And  the  smiting  of  the  rod, 

And  to  dwell  among  the  angels, 
In  the  City  of  our  God. 


FORGIVENESS. 

O  THOU  who  dost  the  sinner  meet, 

Fearing  his  garment's  hem, 
Think  of  the  Master,  and  repeat, 

"  Neither  do  I  condemn  !  " 
And  while  the  eager  rabble  stay, 

Their  storms  of  wrath  to  pour, 
Think  of  the  Master  still,  and  say, 

"  Go  thou,  and  sin  no  more  !  " 


THE  GOLDEN  MEAN. 

LEST  to  evil  ways  I  run 

When  I  go  abroad, 
Shine  about  me,  like  the  sun, 

O  my  gracious  Lord  ! 
Make  'the    clouds,    with    silver  glow 
ing* 
Like  a  mist  of  lilies  blowing 

O'er  the  summer  sward  ; 
And   mine   eyes   keep   thou   from  be 
ing 
Ever  satisfied  with  seeing, 

O  my  light,  my  Lord  ! 

Lest  my  thoughts  on  discontent 

Should  in  sleep  be  fed, 
Make  the  darkness  like  a  tent 

Round  about  my  bed  : 
, Sweet  as  honey  to  the  taster, 
Make  my  dreams  be,  O  my  Master, 
Sweet  as  honey,  ere  it  loses 

Spice  of  meadow-blooms, 
While  the  taster  tastes  the  roses 

In  the  golden  combs. 

Lest  I  live  in  lowly  ease, 

Or  in  loftly  scorn, 
Make  me  like  the  strawberries 

That  run  among  the  corn  ; 
Grateful  in  the  shadows  keeping, 
Of   the  broad   leaves   o'er   me  sweep 
ing  ; 

16 


In  the  gold  crop's  stead,  to  render 
Some  small  berries,  red  and  tender, 
Like  the  blushing  morn. 

Lest  that  pain  to  pain  be  placed  — 

Weary  day  to  day, 
Let  me  sit  at  good  men's  feasts 

When  the  house  is  gay  : 
Let  my  heart  beat  up  to  measures 
Of  all  comfortable  pleasures, 

Till  the  morning  gray, 
O'er  the  eastern  hill-tops  glancing, 
Sets  the  woodlands  all  to  dancing, 

And  scares  night  away. 

Lest  that  I  in  vain  pretense 

Careless  live  and  move, 
Heart  and  mind,  and  soul  and  sense, 

Quicken  thou  with  love  ! 
Fold  its  music  over,  under, 
Breath  of  flute  and  boom  of  thunder, 
Nor  make  satisfied  my  hearing 
As  I  go  on,  nearing,  nearing 

Him  whose  name  is  Love. 


THE  FIRE  BY  THE  SEA. 

THERE  were  seven  fishers,  with    nets 

in  their  hands, 
And   they   walked  and   talked   by  the 

sea-side  sands  ; 

Yet  sweet  as  the  sweet  dew-fall 
The   words    they   spake,    though    they 

spake  so  low, 

Across  the  long,  dim  centuries,  flow. 
And  we  know  them,  one  and  all  — 
Aye  !  know  them  and  love  them  all. 

Seven  sad  men  in  the  days  of  old, 
And  one  was  gentle,  and  one  was  bold, 
And    they   walked   with    downward 

eyes  ; 
The   bold  was  Peter,  the   gentle    was 

John, 
And  they  all  were  sad,  for  the  Lord  was 

gone, 
And    they   knew  not    if    He    would 

rise  — 
Knew  not  if  the  dead  would  rise. 

The  livelong  night,  till  the  moon  went 

out 
In    the    drowning    waters,    they    beat 

about ; 

Beat  slow  through  the  fog  their  way  ; 
And     the    sails    drooped    clown    with 

wringing  wet, 


242 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And  no  man  drew  but  an  empty  net, 
And  now  't  was    the    break    of   the 

day- 
The  great,  glad  break  ot  the  day. 

"  Cast  in  your  nets  on  the  other  side  !  " 

('T  was  Jesus  speaking  across  the  tide  ; ) 

And    they   cast   and    were  dragging 

hard  ; 

But  that  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved 
Cried  straightway  out,  for  his  heart  was 

moved  : 

i(  It  is  our  risen  Lord  — 
Our  Master,  and  our  Lord  !  " 

Then  Simon,  girding  his  fisher's  coat, 
Went  over   the    nets    and  out   of  the 

boat  — 

Aye  !  first  of  them  all  was  he  ; 
Repenting  sore  the  denial  past, 
He  feared  no  longer  his  heart  to  cast 
Like  an  anchor  into  the  sea  — 
Down  deep  in  the  hungry  sea. 

And  the  others,  through  the  mists  so 

dim, 
In  a  little  ship  came  after  him, 

Dragging  their  net  through  the  tide  ; 
And  when  they  had  gotten  close  to  the 

land 

They  saw  a  fire  of  coals  on  the  sand, 
And,  with  arms  of  love  so  wide, 
Jesus,  the  crucified  ! 

'T  is  long,  and  long,  and  long  ago 
Since  the  rosy  lights  began  to  flow 

O'er  the  hills  of  Galilee  ; 
And  with  eager  eyes  and  lifted  hands 
The  seven  fishers  saw  on  the  sands 
The  fire  of  coals  by  the  sea  — 
On  the  wet,  wild  sands  by  the  sea. 

:T  is  long  ago,  yet  faith  in  our  souls 
Is  kindled  just  by  that  fire  of  coals 
That  streamed  o'er  the  mists  of  the 

sea  ; 

Where  Peter,  girding  his  fisher's  coat, 
Went  over  the  nets  and  out  of  the  boat, 
To  answer,  "  Lov'st  thou  me  ? " 
Thrice  over,  "  Lov'st  thou  me  ?  " 


THE  SURE  WITNESS. 

THE  solemn  wood  had  spread 
Shadows  around  my  head  ; 
*'  Curtains  they  are,"  I  said, 


;;  Hung  dim  and  still  about  the  house 

of  prayer." 

Softly  among  the  limbs, 
Turning  the  leaves  of  hymns, 
I  heard  the  winds,  and  asked  if  God 

were  there. 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 

stood, 

Sweet  peace  made  holy  hushes  through 
the  wood. 

With  ruddy,  open  hand, 
I  saw  the  wild  rose  stand 
Beside  the  green  gate  of  the  summer 

hills  ; 

And  pulling  at  her  dress, 
I  cried,  "  Sweet  hermitess, 
Hast   thou    beheld  Him  who  the  dew 

distills  ?  " 

No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening- 
bent, 

Her  gracious  beauty 'made    my   heart 
content. 

The  moon  in  splendor  shone  ; 
"  She  walketh  heaven  alone, 
And    seeth    all   things,"    to   myself    I 

mused  ; 

"  Hast  thou  beheld  Him,  then, 
Who  hides  Himself  from  men 
In  that  great  power  through  nature  in 
terfused  ?  " 
No  speech  made  answer,  and  no  sign 

appeared, 

But  in  the  silence  I  was  soothed  and 
cheered. 

Waking  one  time,  strange  awe 
Thrilling  my  soul,  I  saw 
A   kingly   splendor   round    about   the 

night  ; 

Such  cunning  work  the  hand 

Of  spinner  never  planned,  — 

The  finest  wool  may  not  be  washed  so 

white. 
"  Hast  thou  come  out  of  heaven  ?  "  I 

asked  ;  and  lo  ! 

The  snow  was  all   the  answer  of  the 
snow. 

Then  my  heart  said,  "  Give  o'er  ; 

Question  no  more,  no  more  ! 
The   wind,  the    snow-storm,   the   wild 
hermit  flower, 

The  illuminated  air, 

The  pleasure  after  prayer, 
Proclaim  the  unoriginated  Power! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


243 


The  mystery  that  hides  Him  here  and 
there, 

Bears  the  sure  witness  He  is  every 
where." 


A   PENITENT'S    PLEA. 

LIKE  a  child  that  is  lost 

From  its  home  in  the  night, 
I  grope  through  the  darkness 

And  cry  for  the  light  ; 
Yea,  all  that  is  in  me 

Cries  out  for  the  day  — 
Come  Jesus,  my  Master, 

Illumine  my  way  ! 

In  the  conflicts  that  pass 

'Twixt  my  soul  and  my  God, 
I  walk  as  one  walketh 

A  fire-path,  unshod  ; 
And  in  my  despairing 

Sit  dumb  by  the  way  — 
Come  Jesus,  my  Master, 

And  heai  me,  I  pray  ! 

I  know  the  fierce  flames 

Will  not  cease  to  uproll, 
Till  thou  rainest  the  dew 

Of  thy  love  on  my  soul  ; 
And  I  know  the  dumb  spirit 

Will  never  depart, 
Till  thou  comest  and  makest 

Thy  house  in  my  heart. 

My  thoughts  lie  within  me 

As  waste  as  the  sands  ; 
Oh  make  them  be  musical 

Strings  in  thy  hands  ! 
My  sins,  red  as  scarlet, 

Wash  white  as  a  fleece  — 
Come  Jesus,  my  Master, 

And  give  me  thy  peace  ! 


LOVE  IS   LIFE. 

OUR  days  are  few  and  full  of  strife  ; 

Like  leaves  our  pleasures  fade  and 
fall; 

But  Thou  who  art  the  all  in  all, 
Thy  name  is  Love,  and  love  is  Life  ! 

We  walk  in  sleep  and  think  we  see  ; 

Our  little  lives  are  clothed  with 
dreams  ; 

For  that  to  us  which  substance  seems 
Is  shadow,  'twixt  ourselves  and  thee. 


We  are  immortal  now,  and  here, 

Chances    and    changes,    night    and 

day, 
Are  landmarks  in  the  eternal  way  ; 

Our  fear  is  all  we  have  to  fear. 

Our  lives  are  dew-drops  in  thy  sun  ; 
Thou  breakest  them,  and  lo  !  we  see 
A     thousand     gracious     shapes    of 
thee,  — 

A  thousand  shapes,  instead  of  one. 

The  soul  that  drifts  all  darkly  dim 
Through  floods  that  seem  outside  of 

grace, 

Is  only  surging  toward  the  place 
Which  thou  hast  made  and  meant  for 
him. 

For  this  we  hold,  —  ill  could  not  be 
Were  there    no   power  beyond   the 

ill; 
Our  wills  are  held  within  thy  will  ; 

The  ends  of  goodness  rest  with  thee. 

Fall  storms  of  winter  as  you  may, 
The  dry  boughs  in  the  warm  spring 

rain 
Shall  put  their  green   leaves   forth 

again, 
And  surely  we  are  more  than  they. 


THY  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  thee, 
And   through  them   all   thy   love  is 
shown  ; 

Flowing  about  us  like  a  sea, 

Yet  steadfast  as  the  eternal  throne. 

Out  of  the  light  that  runneth  through 
Thy  hand,  the  lily's  dress  is  spun  ; 

Thine  is  the  brightness  of  the  dew, 
And  thine  the  glory  of  the  sun. 


OUR  God  is  love,  and  that  which  we 

miscall 
Evil,  in  this  good  world  that  He  has 

made, 
Is  meant  to  be  a  little  tender  shade 

Between   us  and   His  glory,  —  that  is 
all  ; 

And  he  who  loves  the  best  his  fellow- 
man 

Is    loving    God,    the    holiest   way   he 
can. 


244 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE    GARY. 


TIME. 

WHAT  is  time,  O  glorious  Giver, 
With  its  restlessness  and  might, 

But  a  lost  and  wandering  river 
Working  back  into  the  light  ? 

Every  gloomy  rock  that  troubles 
Its  smooth  passage,  strikes  to  life 

Beautiful  and  joyous  bubbles 

That  are  only  born  through  strife. 

Overhung  with  mist-like  shadows, 
Stretch  its  shores  away,  away, 

To  the  long,  delightful  meadows 
Shining  with  immortal  May  : 

Where  its  moaning  reaches  never, 
Passion,  pain,  or  fear  to  move, 

And  the  changes  bring  us  ever 
Sabbaths  and  new  moons  of  love. 


SUPPLICATION. 

0  THOU,  who  all  my  life  hast  crowned 
With    better    things    than    I    could 

ask, 

Be  it  to-day  my  humble  task 
To    own    from   depths    of    grief  pro 
found, 

The  many  sins,  which  darken  through 

What  little  good  I  do. 

1  have  been  too  much  used,  I  own, 
To  tell  my  needs  in  fretful  words  ; 
The  clamoring  of  the  silly  birds, 

Impatient  till  their  wings  be  grown, 
Have  thy  forgiveness.    O  my  blessed 

Lord, 
The  like  to  me  accord. 

Of  grace,  as  much  as  will  complete 

Thy  will  in  me,  I  pray  thee  for  ; 

Even  as  a  rose  shut  in  a  drawer 
That  maketh  all  about  it  sweet, 

I  would  be,  rather  than   the    cedar 
fine  : 

Help  me,  thou  Power  divine. 

With  charity  fill  thou  my  heart, 

As  summer  fills  the  grass  with  clews, 
And  as  th'  year  itself  renews 

In  th'  sun,  when  winter  days  depart, 
Blessed  forever,  grant  thou  me 
To  be  renewed  in  thee. 


WHITHER. 

ALL  the  time  my  soul  is  calling, 
"  Whither,  whither  do  !  go  ?  " 

For  my  days  like  leaves  are  falling 
From  my  tree  of  life  below. 

Who  will  come  and  be  my  lover ! 

Who  is  strong  enough  to  save, 
When  that  I  am  leaning  over 

The  dark  silence  of  the  grave  ? 

Wherefore  should  my  soul  be  calling, 
"  Whither,  whither  do  I  go  ?  " 

For  my  days  like  leaves  are  falling 
In  the  hand  of  God,  I  know. 

As  the  seasons  touch  their  ending, 
As  the  dim  years  fade  and  flee, 

Let  me  rather  still  be  sending 
Some  good  deed  to  plead  for  me. 

Then,  though  none  should  stay  to  weep 
me, 

Lover-like,  within  the  shade, 
He  will  hold  me,  Ha  will  keep  me, 

And  I  will  not  be  afraid. 


SURE   ANCHOR. 

OUT  of  the  heavens  come  down  to  me, 
O  Lord,  and  hear  my  earnest  prayer  ; 

On  life  above  the  life  I  see 

Fix  thou  my  soul,  and  keep  it  there. 

The  richest  joys  of  earth  are  poor  ; 

The  fairest  forms  are  all  unfair  ; 
On  what  is  peaceable  and  pure 

Set  thou  my  heart,  and  keep  it  there. 

Pride  builds  her  house  upon  the  sand  ; 

Ambition  treads  the  spider's  stair  ; 
On  whatsoever  things  will  stand 

Set   thou    my   feet,  and   keep   them 
there. 

The  past  is  vanished  in  the  past : 
The  future  doth  a  shadow  wear ; 

On  whatsoever  things  are  fast 

Fix  thou  mine  eyes,  and  keep  them 
there, 

In  spite  of  slander's  tongue,  in  spite 
Of  burdens  grievous  hard  to  bear, 

To  whatsoever  things  are  right 

Set  thou  my  hand,  and  keep  it  there. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


245 


Life  is  a  little  troubled  breath, 
Love  but  another  name  for  care  ; 

Lord,  anchor  thou  my  hope  and  faith 
In  things  eternal,  — only  there. 


REMEMBER. 

IN  thy  time,  and  times  of  mourning, 
When  grief  doeth  all  she  can 

To  hide  the  prosperous  sunshine, 
Remember  this,  O  man,  — 

"  He  setteth  an  end  to  darkness." 

Sad  saint,  of  the  world  forgotten, 
Who  workest  thy  work  apart, 

Take  thou  this  promise  for  comfort, 
And  hold  it  in  thy  heart,  — 

"  He  searcheth  out  all  perfection." 

O  foolish  and  faithless  sailor, 
When  the  ship  is  driven  away, 

When  the  waves  forget  their  places, 
And  the  anchor  will  not  stay,  — 

"  He  weigheth  the  waters  by  measure." 

O  outcast,  homeless,  bewildered, 
Let  now  thy  murmurs  be* still, 

Go  in  at  the  gates  of  gladness 
And  eat  of  the  feast  at  will,  — 

"  For  wisdom  is  better  than  riches." 

O  diligent,  diligent  sower, 
Who  sowest  thy  seed  in  vain, 

When  the  corn  in  the  ear  is  withered, 
And  the  young  flax  dies  for  rain,  — 

"  Through  rocks  He  cutteth  out  rivers." 


ADELIED. 

UNPRAISED  but  of  my  simple  rhymes, 
She  pined  from  life  and  died, 

The  softest  of  all  April  times 
That  storm  and  shine  divide. 

The  swallow  twittered  within  reach 

Impatient  of  the  rain, 
And  the  red  blossoms  of  the  peach 

Blew  down  against  the  pane. 

When,  feeling  that  life's  wasting  sands 

Were  wearing  into  hours, 
She  took  her  long  locks  in  her  hands 

And  gathered  out  the  flowers. 

The  day  was  nearly  on  the  close, 
And  on  the  eave  in  sight, 


The  doves  were  gathered  in  white  rows 
With  bosoms  to  the  light  ; 

When  first  my  sorrow  flowed  to  rhymes 

For  gentle  Adelied  — 
The  light  of  thrice  five  April  times 

Had  kissed  her  when  she  died. 


SUNDAY  MORNING. 

0  DAY  to  sweet  religious  thought 
So  wisely  set  apart, 

Back  to  the  silent  strength  of  life 
Help  thou  my  wavering  heart. 

Nor  let  the  obtrusive  lies  of  sense 

My  meditations  draw 
From  the  composed,  majestic  realm 

Of  everlasting  law. 

Break  down  whatever  hindering  shapes 

I  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
And  make  my  soul  acquainted  with 

Celestial  company. 

Beyond  the  wintry  waste  of  death 
Shine  fields  of  heavenly  light ; 

Let  not  this  incident  of  time 
Absorb  me  from  their  sight. 

1  know  these  outward  forms  wherein 
So  much  my  hopes  I  stay, 

Are  but  the  shadowy  hints  of  that 
Which  cannot  pass  away. 

That  just  outside  the  work-day  path 

By  man's  volition  trod, 
Lie  the  resistless  issues  of 

The  things  ordained  of  God. 


IN  THE  DARK. 

OUT  of  the  earthly  years  we  live 
How  small  a  profit  springs  ; 

I  cannot  think  but  life  should  give 
Higher  and  better  things. 

The  very  ground  whereon  we  tread 
Is  clothed  to  please  our  sight  ; 

I  cannot  think  that  we  have  read 
Our  dusty  lesson  right. 

So  little  comfort  we  receive, 
Except  through  what  we  see, 


246 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


I  cannot  think  we  half  believe 
Our  immortality. 

We  disallow  and  trample  so 
The  rights  of  poor  weak  men, 

I  cannot  think  we  feel  and  know 
They  are  our  brethren. 

So  rarely  our  affections  move 

Without  a  selfish  guard, 
I  cannot  think  we  know  that  love 

Is  all  of  love's  reward. 

To  him  who  smites,  the  cheek  is  turned 

With  such  a  slow  consent, 
I  cannot  think  that  we  have  learned 

The  holy  Testament. 

Blind,  ignorant,  we  grope  along 

A  path  misunderstood, 
Mingling  with  folly  and  with  wrong 

Some  providential  good. 

Striving  with  vain  and  idle  strife 

In  outward  shows  to  live, 
We  famish,  knowing  not  that  life 

Has  better  things  to  give. 


PARTING   SONG. 

THE  long  day  is  closing, 
Ah,  why  should  you  weep  ? 

'T  is  thus  that  God  gives 
His  beloved  ones  sleep. 

I  see  the  wide  water 

So  deep  and  so  black,  — 
Love  waits  me  beyond  it,  — 

I  would  not  go  back  ! 

I  would  not  go  back 

Where  its  joys  scarce  may  gleam, 
Where  even  in  dreaming 

We  know  that  we  dream  ; 

For  though  life  filled  for  me 

All  measures  of  bliss, 
H  is  it  anything  better 

Or  sweeter  than  this  ? 

I  would  not  go  back 

To  the  torment  of  fear,  — 

To  the  wastes  of  uncomfort 
When  home  is  so  near. 

Each  night  is  a  prison-bar 
Broken  and  gone,  — 


Each  morning  a  golden  gate, 
On,  — farther  on  ! 

On,  on  toward  the  city 

So  shining  and  fair  ; 
And  He  that  hath  loved  me  — 

Died  for  me  —  is  there. 


THE   HEAVEN   THAT  'S    HERE. 

MY  God,  I  feel  thy  wondrous  might 
In  Nature's  various  shows,  — 

The   whirlwind's  breath,  —  the  tendet 

light 
Of  the  rejoicing  rose. 

For  doth  not  that  same  power  enfold 

Whatever  things  are  new, 
Which  shone  about  the  saints  of  old 

And  struck  the  seas  in  two  ? 

Ashamed,  I  veil  my  fearful  eyes 
From  this,  thy  earthly  reign  ; 

What  shall  I  do  when  I  arise 
From  death,  but  die  again  I 

What  shall  I  do  but  prostrate  fall 

Before  the  splendor  there, 
That  here,  so  dazzles  me  through  all 

The  dusty  robes  I  wear. 

Life's  outward  and  material  laws,  — 
Love,  sunshine,  all  things  bright,  — 

Are  curtains  which  thy  mercy  draws 
To  shield  us  from  that  light. 

I  falter  when  I  try  to  seek 

The  world  which  these  conceal  ; 

I  stammer  when  I  fain  would  speak 
The  reverence  that  I  feel. 

I  dare  not  pray  to  thee  to  give 
That  heaven  which  shall  appear ; 

My  cry  is,  Help  me,  thou,  to  live 
Within  the  heaven  that's  here. 


AMONG  the  pitfalls  in  our  way 
The  best  of  us  walk  blindly ; 

O  man,  be  wary  !  watch  and  pray, 
And  judge  your  brother  kindly. 

Help  back  his  feet,  if  they  have  slid, 
Nor  count  him  still  your  debtor  ; 

Perhaps  the  very  wrong  he  did 
Has  made  yourself  the  better. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


247 


THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE. 

THE  stream  of  life  is  going  dry  ; 

Thank  God,  that  more  and  more 
I  see  the  golden  sands,  which  I 

Could  never  see  before. 


The 


dark  with   graves  of 


banks   are 
friends  ; 
Thank  God,  for  faith  sublime 
In  the  eternity  that  sends 
Its  shadows  into  time. 


The  flowers  are  gone  that  with    their 

glow 

Of  sunshine  filled  the  grass  ; 
Thank   God,   they   were   but  dim  and 

low 
Reflections  in  a  glass. 

The  autumn  winds  are  blowing  chill ; 

The  summer  warmth  is  done  ; 
Thank  God,  the  little  dew-drop  still 

Is  drawn  into  the  sun. 

Strange  stream,  to  be  exhaled  so  fast 

In  cloudy  cares  and  tears  ; 
Thank    God,  that    it   should    shine    at 
last 

Along  the  immortal  years. 


DEAD  AND  ALIVE. 

TILL  I  learned  to  love  thy  name, 

Lord,  thy  grace  denying, 
I  was  lost  in  sin  and  shame, 

Dying,  dying,  dying  ! 

Nothing  could  the  world  impart  ; 

Darkness  held  no  morrow  ; 
In  my  soul  and  in  my  heart 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  sorrow  ! 

All  the  blossoms  came  to  blight  ; 

Noon  was  dull  and  dreary  ; 
Night  and  clay,  and  day  and  night, 

Weary,  weary,  weary  ! 

When  I  learned  to  love  thy  name, 

Peace  beyond  all  measure 
Came,  and  in  the  stead  of  shame, 

Pleasure,  pleasure,  pleasure  ! 

Winds  may  beat,  and  storms  may  fall, 
Thou,  the  meek  and  lowly, 


Reignest,  and  I  sing  through  all, 
Holy,  holy,  holy  ! 

Life  may  henceforth  never  be 

Like  a  dismal  story, 
For  beyond  its  bound  I  see 

Glory,  glory,  glory  ! 


INVOCATION. 

COME  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us, 
Thou  that  once  life's  pathway  trod, 

Knowing  all  its  gloom  and  glory, — 
Son  of  man,  and  Son  of  God. 

Come  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us, 
When  our  hopes  before  us  flee  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a  man  of  sorrows, 
Tried  and  tempted,  even  as  we. 

By  the  weakness  of  our  nature, 
By  the  burdens  of  our  care, 

Steady  up  our  fainting  courage,  — 
Save,  oh  save  us  from  despair  ! 

By  the  still  and  strong  temptation 
Of  consenting  hearts  within  ; 

By  the  power  of  outward  evil, 
Save,  oh  save  us  from  our  sin  ! 

By  the  infirm  and  bowed  together,  — 
By  the  demons  far  and  near,  — 

By  all  sick  and  sad  possessions, 
Save,  oh  save  us  from  our  fear  ! 

From  the  dim  and  dreary  doubting 
That  with  faith  a  warfare  make, 

Save    us,  through    thy  sweet  compas 
sion,  — 
Save  us,  for  thy  own  name's  sake. 

And  when  all  of  life  is  finished 
To  the  last  low  fainting  breath, 

Meet  us  in  the  awful  shadows, 
And  deliver  us  from  death. 


LIFE  OF  LIFE. 

To  Him  who  is  the  Life  of  life, 
My  soul  its  vows  would  pay  ; 

He  leads  the  flowery  seasons  on, 
And  gives  the  storm  its  way. 

The  winds  run  backward  to  their  caves 
At  his  divine  command,  — 


248 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


And  the  great  deep  He  folds  within 
The  hollow  of  his  hand. 

He  clothes  the  grass,  He    makes    the 
rose 

To  wear  her  good  attire  ; 
The  moon  He  gives  her  patient  grace, 

And  all  the  stars  their  fire. 

He  hears  the  hungry  raven's  cry, 
And  sends  her  young  their  food, 

And  through  our  evil  intimates 
His  purposes  of  good. 

He  stretches  out  the  north,  He  binds 

The  tempest  in  his  care  ; 
The    mountains     cannot    strike    their 
roots 

So  deep  He  is  not  there. 

Hid  in  the  garment  of  his  works, 

We  feel  his  presence  still 
With  us,  and  through  us  fashioning 

The  mystery  of  his  will. 


MERCIES. 

LEST  the  great  glory  from  on  high 
Should  make  our  senses  swim, 

Our  blessed  Lord  hath  spread  the  sky 
Between  ourselves  and  Him. 

He  made  the  Sabbath  shine  before 
The  work-days  and  the  care, 

And  set  about  its  golden  door 
The  messengers  of  prayer. 

Across  our  earthly  pleasures  fled 
He  sends  his  heavenly  light, 

Like  morning  streaming  broad  and  red 
Adown  the  skirts  of  night. 

He  nearest  comes  when  most  his  face 
Is  wrapt  in  clouds  of  gloom  ; 

The  firmest  pillars  of  his  grace 
Are  planted  in  the  tomb. 

Oh  shall  we  not  the  power  of  sin 

And  vanity  withstand, 
When  thus  our  Father  holds  us  in 

The  hollow  of  his  hand  ? 


PLEASURE   AND    PAIN. 

PLEASURE  and  pain  walk  hand  in  hand, 
Each  is  the  other's  poise  ; 


The  borders  of  the  silent  land 
Are  full  of  troubled  noise. 

While  harvests  yellow  as  the  day 

In  plenteous  billows  roll, 
Men  go  about  in  blank  dismay, 

Hungry  of  heart  and  soul. 

Like    chance-sown   weeds    they   grow, 
and  drift 

On  to  the  drowning  main  ; 
Oh,  for  a  lever  that  would  lift 

Thought  to  a  higher  plane  ! 

Sin  is  destructive  :  he  is  dead 
Whose  soul  is  lost  to  truth  ; 

While  virtue  makes  the  hoary  head 
Bright  with  eternal  youth. 

There  is  a  courage  that  partakes 

Of  cowardice  ;  a  high 
And  honest-hearted  fear  that  makes 

The  man  afraid  to  lie. 

When  no  low  thoughts  of  self  intrude, 

Angels  adjust  our  rights  ; 
And  love  that  seeks  its  selfish  good 

Dies  in  its  own  delights. 

How  much  we  take,  —  how  little  give,  — 

Yet  every  life  is  meant 
To  help  all  lives  ;  each  man  should  live 

For  all  men's  betterment. 


MYSTERIES. 

CLOUDS,  with  a  little  light  between  ; 

Pain,  passion,  fear,  and  doubt,  — 
What  voice   shall   tell  me  what   they 
mean  ? 

I  cannot  find  them  out  ! 

Hopeless  my  task  is,  to  begin, 
Who  fail  with  all  my  power, 

To  read  the  crimson  lettering  in 
The  modest  meadow  flower. 

Death,  with  shut  eyes  and  icy  cheek, 

Bearing  that  bitter  cup  ; 
Oh,  who  is  wise  enough  to  speak, 

And  break  its  silence  up  ! 

Or  read  the  evil  writing  on 

The  wall  of  good,  for,  oh, 
The  more  my  reason  shines  upon 

Its  lines,  the  less  I  know : 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


249 


Or  show  how  dust  became  a  rose, 

And  what  it  is  above 
All  mysteries  that  doth  compose 

Discordance  into  love. 

I  only  know  that  wisdom  planned, 

And  that  it  is  my  part 
To  trust,  who  cannot  understand 

The  beating  of  my  heart. 


LYRIC. 

THOU  givest,  Lord,  to  Nature  law, 

And  she  in  turn  doth  give 
Her  poorest  flower  a  right  to  draw 

Whate'er  she  needs  to  live. 

The  dews  upon  her  forehead  fall, 
The  sunbeams  round  her  lean, 

And  dress  her  humble  form  with  all 
The  glory  of  a  queen. 

In   thickets    wild,    in   woodland    bow 
ers, 

By  waysides,  everywhere, 
The  plainest  flower  of  all  the  flowers 

Is  shining  with  thy  care. 

And    shall    I,    through    my   fear    and 
doubt, 

Be  less  than  one  of  these, 
And  come  from  seeking  thee  without 

By  blessed  influences  ? 

Thou  who  hast  crowned  my  life  with 
powers 

So  large,  —  so  high  above 
The  fairest  flower  of  all  the  flowers,  — 

Forbid  it  by  thy  love. 


TRUST. 

AWAY  with  all  life's  memories, 

Away  with  hopes,  away  ! 
Lord,  take  me  up  into  thy  love, 

And  keep  me  there  to-day. 

I  cannot  trust  to  mortal  eyes 
My  weakness  and  my  sin  ; 

Temptations  He  alone  can  judge, 
Who  knows  what  they  have  been. 

But  I  can  trust  Him  who  provides 
The  thirsty  ground  with  dew, 


And  round  the  wounded  beetle  builds 
His  grassy  house  anew. 

For   the  same   hand  that  smites  with 
pain, 

And  sends  the  wintry  snows, 
Doth  mould  the  frozen  clod  again 

Into  the  summer  rose. 

My  soul  is  melted  by  that  love, 

So  tender  and  so  true  ; 
I  can  but  cry,  My  Lord  and  God, 

What  wilt  thou  have  me  do  ? 

My  blessings  all  come  back  to  me, 
And  round  about  me  stand  ; 

Help  me  to  climb  their  dizzy  stairs 
Until  I  touch  thy  hand. 


ALL  IN   ALL. 

AWEARY,  wounded  unto  death,  — 

Unfavored  of  men's  eyes, 
I  have  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 

Eternal,  in  the  skies. 

A  house  where  but  the  steps  of  faith 
Through  the  white  light  have  trod, 

Steadfast  among  the  mansions  of 
The  City  of  our  God. 

There  never  shall  the  sun  go  down 

From  the  lamenting  day  ; 
There  storms  shall  never  rise  to  beat 

The  light  of  love  away. 

There  living  streams  through  deathless 

flowers 

Are  flowing  free  and  wide  ; 
There  souls  that  thirsted  here  below 
Drink,  and  are  satisfied. 

I  know  my  longing  shall  be  filled 
When  this  weak,  wasting  clay 

Is  folded  like  a  garment  from 
My  soul,  and  laid  away. 

I  know  it  by  th'  immortal  hopes 
That  wrestle  down  my  fear,  — 

By  all  the  awful  mysteries 

That  hide  heaven  from  us  here. 

Oh  what  a  blissful  heritage 

On  such  as  I  to  fall ; 
Possessed  of  thee,  my  Lord  and  God, 

I  am  possessed  of  all. 


250 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   CARY. 


THE   PURE   IN    HEART. 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see 
God." 

I  ASKED  the  angels  in  my  prayer, 
With  bitter  tears  and  pains, 

To  show  mine  eyes  the  kingdom  where 
The  Lord  of  glory  reigns. 

I  said,  My  way  with  doubt  is  dim, 
My  heart  is  sick  with  fear  ; 

Oh  come,  and  help  me  build  to  Him 
A  tabernacle  here  ! 

The  storms  of  sorrow  wildly  beat, 
The  clouds  with  death  are  chill  ; 

I  long  to  hear  his  voice  so  sweet, 
Who  whispered,  "  Peace  ;  be  still !  " 

The  angels  said,  God  giveth  you 
His  love,  —  what  more  is  ours  ? 

And  even  as  the  gentle  dew 
Descends  upon  the  flowers, 

His  grace  descends  ;  and,  as  of  old, 

He  walks  with  man  apart, 
Keeping  the  promise  as  foretold, 

With  all  the  pure  in  heart. 

Thou  needst  not  ask  the  angels  where 

His  habitations  be  ; 
Keep  thou  thy  spirit  clean  and  fair, 

And  He  shall  dwell  with  thee. 


UNSATISFIED. 

COME  out  from  heaven,  O  Lord,  and  be 

my  guide, 
Come,  I  implore  ; 

To  my  dark  questionings  unsatisfied, 
Leave  me  no  more,  — 
No  more,  O  Lord,  no  more  ! 

Forgetting  how  my  nights  and  how  my 

days 

Run  sweetly  by,  — 
Forgetting    that  thy  ways   above  our 

ways 

Are  all  so  high,  — 
I  cry,  and  ever  cry  — 

Since  that  thou  leavest  not   the  wildest 

glen, 
For  flowers  to  wait, 


How  leavest  thou  the  hearts  of  living 

men 

So  desolate,  — 
So  darkly  desolate  ? 

Thou  keepest  safe  beneath  the  wintry 

snow 

The  little  seed, 
And  leavest  under  all  its   weights   of 

woe, 

The  heart  to  bleed, 
And  vainly,  vainly  plead. 

In   the  dry  root   thou  stirrest    up  the 

sap  ; 

At  thy  commands 
Cometh  the    rain,  and   all    the  bushes 

clap 

Their  rosy  hands  : 
Man  only,  thirsting,  stands. 

Is    it   for    envy,    or   from   wrath    that 

springs 

From  foolish  pride, 

Thou  leavest  him  to  his  dark  question 
ings 

Unsatisfied,  — 
Always  unsatisfied  ? 


MORE  LIFE. 

WHEN  spring-time  prospers  in  the 
grass, 

And  fills  the  vales  with  tender  bloom, 
And  light  winds  whisper  as  they  pass 

Of  sunnier  days  to  come  ; 

In  spite  of  all  the  joy  she  brings 

To  flood  and  field,  to  hill  and  grove, 
This  is  the  song  my  spirit  sings, — 
More  light,  more  life,  more  love  ! 

And  when,  her  time  fulfilled,  she  goes 
So  gently  from  her  vernal  place, 

And   all    the    outstretched    landscape 

glows 
With  sober  summer  grace  ; 

When  on  the  stalk  the  ear  is  set, 
With  all  the  harvest  promise  bright, 

My  spirit  sings  the  old  song  yet,  — 
More  love,  more  life,  more  light  ! 

When  stubble  takes  the  place  of  grain, 
And    shrunken    streams    steal    slow 
along, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


251 


And  all  the  faded  woods  complain 
Like  one  who  suffers  wrong  ; 

When  fires  are  lit,  and  everywhere 
The  pleasures  of  the  household  rife, 

My  song  is  solemnized  to  prayer,  — 
More  love,  more  light,  more  life  ! 


LIGHT  AND   DARKNESS. 

DARKNESS,  blind  darkness  every  way, 
With  low  illuminings  of  light  ; 

Hints,  intimations  of  the  clay 
That  never  breaks  to  full,  clear  light. 

High  longing  for  a  larger  light 
Urges  us  onward  o'er  life's  hill  ; 

Low  fear  of  darkness  and  of  night 
Presses  us  back  and  holds  us  still. 

So  while  to  Hope  we  give  one  hand, 
The  other  hand  to  Fear  we  lend  ; 

And  thus  'twixt  high  and  low  we  stand, 
Waiting  and  wavering  to  the  end. 

Eager  for  some  ungotten  good, 

We  mind  the  false  and  miss  the  true  ; 

Leaving  undone  the  things  we  would, 
We  do  the  things  we  would  not  do. 

For  ill  in  good  and  good  in  ill, 

The  verity,  the  thing  that  seems,  — 

They  run  into  each  other  still, 

Like   dreams    in  truth,  like  truth  in 
dreams. 

Seeing  the  world  with  sin  imbued, 
We  trust  that  in  the  eternal  plan 

Some  little  drop  of  brightest  blood 
Runs  through  the  darkest  heart  of 
man. 

Living  afar  from  what  is  near, 

Uplooking  while  we  downward  tend  ; 

In  light  and  shadow,  hope  and  fear, 
We  sin  and  suffer  to  the  end. 


SUBSTANCE. 

EACH  fearful  storm  that  o'er  us  rolls, 

Each  path  of  peril  trod, 
Is  but  a  means  whereby  our  souls 

Acquaint  themselves  with  God. 


Our  want  and  weakness,  shame  and  sin, 
His  pitying  kindness  prove  ; 

And  all  our  lives  are  folded  in 
The  mystery  of  his  love. 

The  grassy  land,  the  flowering  trees, 
The  waters,  wild  and  dim,  — 

These  are  the  cloud  of  witnesses 
That  testify  of  Him. 

His  sun  is  shining,  sure  and  fast, 
O'er  all  our  nights  of  dread  ; 

Our  darkness  by  his  light,  at  last 
Shall  be  interpreted. 

No  promise  shall  He  fail  to  keep 

Until  we  see  his  face  ; 
E'en  death  is  but  a  tender  sleep 

In  the  eternal  race. 

Time's  empty  shadow  cheats  our  eyes, 
But  all  the  heavens  declare 

The  substance  of  the  things  we  prize 
Is  there  and  only  there. 


LIFE'S  MYSTERY. 

LIFE'S  sadly  solemn  mystery 
Hangs  o'er  me  like  a  weight ; 

The  glorious  longing  to  be  free, 
The  gloomy  bars  of  fate. 

Alternately  the  good  and  ill, 
The  light  and  dark,  are  strung  ; 

Fountains  of  love  within  my  heart, 
And  hate  upon  my  tongue. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  unstable  ground, 
Above  my  head  the  skies  ; 

Immortal  longings  in  my  soul, 
And  death  before  my  eyes. 

No  purely  pure,  and  perfect  good, 
No  high,  unhindered  power  ; 

A  beauteous  promise  in  the  bud, 
And  mildew  on  the  flower. 


The 


glad,    green    brightness 
spring  ; 

The  summer,  soft  and  warm  ; 

The  faded  autumn's  fluttering  gold, 

The  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

To  find  some  sure  interpreter 

My  spirit  vainly  tries  ; 
I  only  know  that  God  is  love, 

And  know  that  love  is  wise. 


of    the 


252 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


FOR  SELF-HELP. 

MASTER,  I  do  not  ask  that  thou 

With  milk  and  wine  my  table  spread, 

So  much,  as  for  the  will  to  plough 
And    sow   my   fields,    and   earn   my 
bread  ; 

Lest  at  thy  coming  I  be  found 

A  useless  cumberer  of  the  ground. 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  wilt  bless 
With  gifts  of  heavenly  sort  my  day, 

So  much,  as  that  my  hands  may  dress 
The  borders  of  my  lowly  way 

With  constant  deeds  of  good  and  right, 

Thereby  reflecting  heavenly  light. 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  shouldst  lift 
My   feet   to   mountain-heights   sub 
lime, 

So  much,  as  for  the  heavenly  gift 
Of  strength,  with  which  myself  may 

climb, 

Making  the  power  thou  madest  mine 
For  using,  by  that  use,  divine. 

I  do  not  ask  that  there  may  flow 
Glory  about  me  from  the  skies  ; 

The  knowledge,  that  doth  knowledge 

know  ; 
The  wisdom  that  is  not  too  wise 

To  see  in  all  things  good  and  fair, 

Thy  love  attested,  is  my  prayer. 


DYING  HYMN,. 

EARTH,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills. 

Recedes,  and  fades  away  ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives, 

Low  as  the  grave,  to  go  ; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  : 

That  I  shall  live,  I  know. 


The  palace  walls  I  almost  see, 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King  ; 

O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ! 
O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ! 


EXTREMITIES. 

WHEN  the  mildew's  blight  we  see 
Over  all  the  harvest  spread, 

Humbly,  Lord,  we  cry  to  thee, 
Give,  oh  give  us,  daily  bread  ! 

But  the  full  and  plenteous  ears 

Many  a  time  we  reap  with  tears. 

When  the  whirlwind  rocks  the  land, 
When  the  gathering  clouds  alarm, 

Lord,  within  thy  sheltering  hand, 
Hide,  oh  hide  us  from  the  storm  ! 

So  with  trembling  souls  we  cry, 

Till  the  cloud  and  noise  pass  by. 

When  our  pleasures  fade  away, 
When  our  hopes  delusive  prove, 

Prostrate  at  thy  feet  we  pray, 

Shield,  oh  shield  us  with  thy  love  ! 

But,  our  anxious  plea  allowed, 

We  grow  petulant  and  proud. 

When  life's  little  day  turns  dull, 

When     the     avenging     shades     be 
gin, 

Save  us,  O  most  Merciful, 

Save  us,  save  us  from  our  sin  ! 

So,  the  last  dread  foe  being  near, 

We  entreat  thee,  through  our  fear. 

Ere  the  dark  our  light  efface, 

Ere  our  pleasure  fleeth  far, 
Make  us  worthier  of  thy  grace, 

Stubborn  rebels  that  we  are  ; 
While  our  good  days  round  us  shine. 
O  our  Father,  make  us  thine. 


HERE  AND  THERE. 

HERE  is  the  sorrow,  the  sighing, 
Here  are  the  cloud  and  the  night ; 

Here  is  the  sickness,  the  dying, 
There  are  the  life  and  the  light ! 

Here  is  the  fading,  the  wasting, 
The  foe  that  so  watchfully  waits  ; 

There  are  the  hills  everlasting, 
The  city  with  beautiful  gates. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


253 


Here  nre  the  locks  growing  hoary, 
The  glass  with  the  vanishing  sands  ; 

There  are  the  crown  and  the  glory, 
The   house    that  is    made    not   with 
hands. 

Here  is  the  longing,  the  vision, 
The  hopes  that  so  swiftly  remove  ; 

There  is  the  blessed  fruition, 

The  feast,  and  the  fullness  of  love. 

Here  are  the  heart-strings  a-tremble 
And  here  is  the  chastening  rod  ; 

There  is  the  song  and  the  cymbal, 
And  there  is  our  Father  and  God. 


THE   DAWN  OF   PEACE. 

AFTER  the  cloud  and  the  whirlwind, 

After  the  long,  dark  night, 
After  the  dull,  slow  marches, 

And  the  thick,  tumultuous  fight, 
Thank  God,  we  see  the  lifting 

Of  the  golden,  glorious  light ! 

After  the  sorrowful  partings, 

After  the  sickening  fear, 
And  after  the  bitter  sealing 

With  blood,  of  year  to  year, 
Thank  God,  the  light  is  breaking ; 

Thank  God,  the  day  is  here  ! 

The  land  is  filled  with  mourning 
For  husbands  and  brothers  slain, 

But  a  hymn  of  glad  thanksgiving 
Rises  over  the  pain  ; 

Thank  God,  our  gallant  soldiers 
Have  not  gone  down  in  vain  ! 

The  cloud  is  spent  ;  the  whirlwind 
That  vexed  the  night  is  past  ; 

And   the    day  whose    blessed    dawn 
ing 
We  see,  shall  surely  last, 

Till  all  the  broken  fetters 

To  ploughshares  shall  be  cast  ! 

When  over  the  field  of  battle 

The  grass  grows  green,  and  when 

The  Spirit  of  Peace  shall  have  planted 
Her  olives  once  again, 

Oh,  how  the  hosts  of  the  people 
Shall  cry,  Amen,  Amen  ! 


OCCASIONAL. 

OUR  mightiest  in  our  midst  is  slain  ; 

The  mourners  weep  around, 
Broken  and  bowed  with  bitter  pain, 

And  bleeding  through  his  wound. 

Prostrate,  o'erwhelmed,   with    anguish 
torn, 

We  cry,  great  God,  for  aid  ; 
Night  fell  upon  us,  even  at  morn, 

And  we  are  sore  afraid. 

Afraid  of  our  infirmities, 

In  this,  our  woeful  woe,  — 
Afraid  to  breast  the  bloody  seas 

That  hard  against  us  flow. 

The  sword  we  sheathed,  our  enemy 
Has  bared,  and  struck  us  through  ; 

And  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit  cry, 
What  wilt  thou  have  us  do  ! 

Be  with  our  country  in  this  grief 

That  lies  across  her  path, 
Lest    that    she   mourn    her   martyred 
chief 

With  an  unrighteous  wrath. 

Give  her  that  steadfast  faith  and  trust 
That  look  through  all,  to  Thee  ; 

And  in  her  mercy  keep  her  just, 
And  through  her  justice,  free. 


WHY  should  our  spirits  be  opprest 
When  days  of  darkness  fall  ? 

Our  Father  knoweth  what  is  best, 
And  He  hath  made  them  all. 

He  made  them,  and  to  all  their  length 

Set  parallels  of  gain  ; 
We  gather  from  our  pain  the  strength 

To  rise  above  our  pain. 

All,  all  beneath  the  shining  sun 

Is  vanity  and  dust ; 
Help  us,  O  high  and  holy  One, 

To  fix  in  thee  our  trust  ; 

And  in  the  change,  and  interfuse 
Of  change,  with  every  hour, 

To  recognize  the  shifting  hues 
Of  never-changing  Power. 


POEMS   FOR  CHILDREN. 


THE   LITTLE   BLACKSMITH. 

WE  heard  his  hammer  all  day  long 

On  the  anvil  ring  and  ring, 
But    he    always    came    when    the    sun 
went  down 

To  sit  on  the  gate  and  sing. 

His  little  hands  so  hard  and  brown 

Crossed  idly  on  his  knee, 
And  straw  hat  lopping  over  cheeks 

As  red  as  they  could  be  ; 

His  blue  and  faded  jacket  trimmed 
With  signs  of  work,  —  his  feet 

All  bare  and  fair  upon  the  grass, 
He  made  a  picture  sweet. 

For  still  his  shoes,  with  iron  shod, 
On  the  smithy-wall  he  hung; 

As  forth  he  came  when  the  sun  went 

down, 
And  sat  on  the  gate  and  sung. 

The  whistling  rustic  tending  cows, 
Would  keep  in  pastures  near, 

And  half  the  busy  villagers 
Lean  from  their  doors  to  hear. 

And     from    the    time    the     bluebirds 
came 

And  made  the  hedges  bright, 
Until  the  stubble  yellow  grew, 

He  never  missed  a  night. 

The    hammer's    stroke    on   the   anvil 

filled 

His  heart  with  a  happy  ring, 
And  that  was  why,  when  the  sun  went 

down, 
He  came  to  the  gate  to  sing. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

BLESSINGS,  blessings  on  the  beds 
Whose  white  pillows  softly  bear, 

Rows  of  little  shining  heads 
That  have  never  known  a  care. 

Pity  for  the  heart  that  bleeds 
In  the  homestead  desolate 

Where  no  little  troubling  needs 
Make  the  weary  working  wait 

Safely,  safely  to  the  fold 

Bring  them  wheresoe'er  they  be, 
Thou,  who  saidst  of  them,  of  old, 

"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me." 


A   CHRISTMAS   STORY. 

TO  BE  READ  BY  ALL  WHO  DEAL  HARDLY 
WITH  YOUNG  CHILDREN. 

PART  I. 

UP,  Gregory  !  the  cloudy  east 

Is  bright  with  the  break  o'  the  day  ; 

'T  is  time  to  yoke  our  cattle,  and  time 
To  eat  our  crust  and  away. 

Up,  out  o'  your  bed  !  for  the  rosy  red 
Will  soon  be  growing  gray. 

Aye,  straight  to  your  feet,  my  lazy  lad, 
And  button  your  jacket  on  — 

Already  neighbor  Joe  is  afield, 
And  so  is  our  neighbor  John  — 

The  golden  light  is  turned  to  white, 
And  't  is  time  that  we  were  gone  ! 

Nay,  leave  your  shoes  hung  high  and 

dry — 
Do  you  fear  a  little  sleet  ? 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


255 


Your  mother  to-day  is  not  by  half 

So  dainty  with  her  feet. 
And  I  '11  warrant  you  she  had  n't  a  shoe 

At  your  age  upon  her  feet ! 

What  !  shiv'ring  on  an  April  day  ? 

Why  this  is  pretty  news  ! 
The  frosts  before  an  hour  will  all 

Be  melted  into  clews, 
And  Christmas  week  will  do,  I  think, 

To  talk  about  your  shoes  ! 

Waiting  to  brew  another  cup 

Of  porridge  ?  sure  you  're  mad  — 

One  cup  at  your  age,  Gregory, 
And  precious  small,  I  had. 

We  cannot  bake  the  Christmas  cake 
At  such  a  rate,  my  lad  ! 

Out,  out  at  once  !  and  on  with  the  yoke, 
Your  feet  will  never  freeze  ! 

The  sun  before  we  have  done  a  stroke- 
Will  be  in  the  tops  o'  the  trees. 

A-Christmas  Day  you  may  eat  and  play 
As  much  as  ever  you  please  ! 

So  out  of  the  house,  and  into  the  sleet, 
With  his  jacket  open  wide, 

Went  pale  and  patient  Gregory  — 
All  present  joy  denied  — 

And  yoked  his  team  like  one  in  a  dream, 
Hungry  and  sleepy-eyed. 


PART   II. 

It  seemed  to  our  little  harvester 
He  could  hear  the  shadows  creep  ; 

For  the  scythe  lay  idle  in  the  grass, 
And  the  reaper  had  ceased  to  reap. 

'T  was  the  burning  noon  of  the  leafy 

June, 
And  the  birds  were  all  asleep. 

And  he  seemed  to  rather  see  than  hear 
The  wind  through   the   long   leaves 

draw, 
As  he  sat  and  notched  the  stops  along 

His  pipe  of  hollow  straw. 
On  Christinas  Day  he   had  planned  to 

play 
His  tune  without  a  flaw. 

Upon  his  sleeve  the  spider's  web 
Hung  loose  like  points  of  lace, 

And  he  looked  like  a  picture  painted 

there, 
He  was  so  full  of  grace. 


For  his  cheeks  they  shone  as  if  there 

had  blown 
Fresh  roses  in  his  face. 

Ah,  never  on  his  lady's  arm 

A  lover's  hand  was  laid 
With  touches  soft  as  his  upon 

The  flute  that  he  had  made, 
As  he  bent  his  ear  and  watched  to  hear 

The  sweet,  low  tune  he  played. 

But  all  at  once  from  out  his  cheek 
The  light  o'  the  roses  fled  — 

He    had    heard   a   coming    step    that 

crushed 
The  daisies  'neath  its  tread. 

O  happiness  !  thou  art  held  by  less 
Than  the  spider's  tiniest  thread  ! 

A  moment,  and  the  old  harsh  call 

Had  broken  his  silver  tune, 
And  with  his  sickle  all  as  bright 

And  bent  as  the  early  moon, 
He  cut  his  way  through  the  thick  set  hay 

In  the  burning  heat  o'  the  June. 

As  one  who  by  a  river  stands, 

Weary  and  worn  and  sad, 
And  see's  the  flowers  the  other  side  — 

So  was  it  with  the  lad. 
There  was  Christmas  light  in  his  dream 
at  night, 

But  a  dream  was  all  he  had. 

Work,   work   in    the    light  o'    th'    rosy 

morns, 

Work,  work  in  the  dusky  eves  ; 
For  now  they  must  plough,  and  now 

they  must  plant, 

And  now  they  must  bind  the  sheaves. 
And  far  away  was  the  holiday 
All  under  the  Christmas  leaves. 

For  still  it  brought  the  same  old  cry, 

If  he  would  rest  or  play, 
Some  other  week,  or  month,  or  year, 

But  not  now  —  not  to-day  ! 
Nor  feast,  nor  flower,  for  th'  passing 
hour, 

But  all  for  the  far  away. 


PART  III. 

Now  Christmas  came,  and  Gregory 
With  the  dawn  was  broad  awake  ; 

But  there  was  the  crumple  cow  to  milk, 
And  there  was  the  cheese  to  make ; 


256 


THE  POEMS  OF   ALICE   GARY. 


And  so  it  was  noon  ere  he  went  to  the 

town 
To  buy  the  Christmas  cake. 

"  You  '11  leave  your  warm,  new  coat  at 

home, 

And  keep  it  fresh  and  bright 
To  wear,"  the  careful  old  man  said, 
"  When  you  come  back  to-night." 
'*  Aye,"  answered  the  lad,  for  his  heart 

was  glad, 
And  he  whistled  out  o'  their  sight. 

The  frugal  couple  sat  by  the  fire 

And  talked  the  hours  away, 
Turning  over  the  years  like  leaves 
To    the    friends    of    their   wedding- 
day— 
Saying   who    was    wed,    and  who  was 

dead, 
And  who  was  growing  gray. 

And  so  at  last  the  day  went  by, 

As,  somehow,  all  days  will  ; 
And  when  the  evening  winds  began 

To  blow  up  wild  and  shrill, 
They  looked  to  see  if  their  Gregory 

Were  coming  across  the  hill. 

They  saw  the  snow-cloud  on  the  sky, 
With  its  rough  and  ragged  edge, 

And  thought  of  the  river  running  high, 
And  thought  of  the  broken  bridge  ; 

But  they  did  not  see  their  Gregory 
Keeping  his  morning's  pledge  ! 

The  old  wife  rose,  her  fear  to  hide, 

And  set  the  house  aright, 
But    oft    she    paused   at  the   window 
side, 

And  looked  out  on  the  night. 
The  candles  fine,  they  were  all  a-shine, 

But  they  could  not  make  it  light. 

The  very  clock  ticked  mournfully, 
And  the  cricket  was  not  glad, 

And  to  the  old  folks  sitting  alone, 
The  time  was,  oh  !  so  sad  ; 

For  the  Christmas  light,  it  lacked  that  j 

night 
The  cheeks  of  their  little  lad. 

The  winds  and  the  woods  fall  wrestling 

now, 
And   they   cry,  as   the  storm  draws 

near, 

"  If  Gregory  were  but  home  alive, 
He  should  not  work  all  this  year  !  " 


For  they  saw  him  dead  in  the  river's 

bed, 
Through  the  surges  of  their  fear. 

Of  ghosts  that  walk  o'  nights  they  tell  — 
A  sorry  Christmas  theme  — 

And  of  signs  and  tokens  in  the  air, 
And  of  many  a  warning  dream, 

Till  the  bough  at  the  pane  through  th' 

sleet  and  rain 
Drags  like  a  corpse  in  a  stream. 

There  was  the  warm,  new  coat  unworn, 
And  the  flute  of  straw  unplayed  ; 

And  these  were  dreadfuller  than  ghosts 
To  make  their  souls  afraid, 

As  the  years  that  were  gone  came  one 

by  one, 
And  their  slights  before  them  laid. 

The  Easter   days    and    the   Christmas 

clays 

Bereft  of  their  sweet  employ, 
And    working     and    waiting     through 

them  all 

Their  little  pale-eyed  boy, 
Looking  away  to  the  holiday 

That  should  bring  the  promised  joy. 

"  God's    mercy   on    us  !  "    cried    they 

both, 

"  We  have  been  so  blind  and  deaf  ; 
And  justly  are  our  gray  heads  bowed 

To  the  very  grave  with  grief." 
But  hark  !  is  't  the  rain  that  taps  at  the 

pane, 
Or  the  fluttering,  falling  leaf  ? 

Nay,  fluttering  leaf,  nor  snow,  nor  rain, 

However  hard  they  strive, 
Can  make  a  sound  so  sweet  and  soft, 

Like  a  bee's  wing  in  the  hive. 
Jo'y  !  joy  !  oh  joy  !  it  is  their  boy  ! 

Safe,  home,  in  their  arms  alive  ! 

Ah,  never  was  there  pair  so  rich 

As  they  that  night,  I  trow, 
And  never  a  lad  in  all  the  world 

With  a  merrier  pipe  to  blow, 
Nor    Christmas    light   that    shone    so 
bright 

At  midnight  on  the  snow. 


NOVEMBER. 

THE  leaves  are  fading  and  falling, 
The  winds  are  rough  and  wild, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


257 


The  birds  have  ceased  their  calling, 
But  let  me  tell  you,  my  child, 

Though  day  by  day,  as  it  closes, 
Doth  darker  and  colder  grow, 

The  roots  of  the  bright  red  roses 
Will  keep  alive  in  the  snow. 

And  when  the  winter  is  over, 
The  boughs  will  get  new  leaves, 

The  quail  come  back  to  the  clover, 
And  the  swallow  back  to  the  eaves. 

The  robin  will  wear  on  his  bosom 
A  vest  that  is  bright  and  new, 

And  the  lovliest  way-side  blossom 
Will  shine  with  the  sun  and  dew. 

The  leaves  to-day  are  whirling, 
The  brooks  are  all  dry  and  dumb, 

But  let  me  tell  you,  my  darling, 
The  spring  will  be  sure  to  come. 

There  must  be  rough,  cold  weather, 
And  winds  and  rains  so  wild  ; 

Not  all  good  things  together 
Come  to  us  here,  my  child. 

So,  when  some  dear  joy  loses 
Its  beauteous  summer  glow, 

Think  how  the  roots  of  the  roses 
Are  kept  alive  in  the  snow. 


MAKE-BELIEVE, 

ALL  upon  a  summer  day, 

Seven  children,  girls  and  boys, 

Raking  in  the  meadow  hay, 

Waked  the  echoes  with  their  noise. 

You  must  know  them  by  their  names  - 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Benjamin  and  Susan  James, 

Joe  and  John  M 'Clary. 

Then  a  child,  so  very  small, 
She  was  only  come  for  play  — 
Little  Miss  Matilda  May, " 

And  you  have  them  one  and  all. 

'T  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  — 
Seven  girls  and  boys  together 

Raking  in  the  summer  weather, 
Merry  as  they  well  could  be  ! 

But  one  lad  that  we  must  own 
Many  a  lad  has  represented, 


Doing  well,  was  not  contented 
To  let  well  enough  alone  ! 

This  was  Master  Benny  James, 
Brother,  you  will  see,  to  Sue, 

If  you  glance  along  the  names 
As  I  set  them  down  for  you. 

Out  he  spoke  —  this  Benjamin  — 
Standing  with  his  lazy  back 
Close  against  a  fragrant  stack. 

Out  and  up  he  spoke,  and  then 
Called  with  much  ado  and  noise 
All  the  seven  girls  and  boys 

From  their  raking  in  the  hay  — 
Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 

Sister  Sue  and  Tilly  May, 
Joe  and  John  M' Clary. 


Two  by  two,  and  one  by  one 
Turned     upon     their     work 
backs, 

And  with  skip,  and  hop,  and  run 
In  and  out  among  the  stacks, 


their 


Came  with  faces  flushed  and  red 
As  the  flowers  along  the  glen, 
And  began  to  question  Ben, 

Who  made  answer  back,  and  said  — 
Speaking  out  so  very  loud  — 
Holding  up  his  head  so  proud, 
As  he  leaned  his  lazy  back 
Close  against  the  fragrant  stack  : 

"  Listen  will  you,  girls  and  boys  ! 
This  is  what  I  have  to  say — 
I  've  invented  a  new  play  !  " 
Then  they  cried  with  merry  noise  — 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  Ben  !  "' 

And  he  answered  —  "  First  of  all, 
All  we  boys,  or  large  or  small, 

Must  pretend  that  we  are  men  ! 

"And  you  girls,  Fan,  Sue,  and  Molly, 
Must  pretend  that  you  're  birds, 
And     must     chirp    and    sing    your 
words  — 

Never  was  there  play  so  jolly  ! 

"  I  'm  to  be  called  Captain  Gray, 
And,  of  course,  the  rest  of  you 

All  must  do  as  I  shall  say." 
Here  he  called  his  sister  Sue, 
Telling  her  she  must  be  blue, 

And  must  answer  to  her  name 

When  the  call  of  Bluebird  came. 

Fanny  Field  must  be  a  Jay, 
And  the  rest  —  no  matter  what  — 


258 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Anything  that  they  were  not  ! 
Mary  might  be  Tilly  May, 
And  Matilda,  as  for  her, 
She  might  be  a  Grasshopper  ! 

All  cried  out,  "  Oh,  what  a  play  !  " 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Susy  James  and  Tilly  May, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary. 

Here  Ben  said  he  was  not  Ben 
Any  more,  but  Captain  Gray  ! 

And  gave  order  first  —  "  My  men, 
Forward  !     march  !     and    rake    the 
hay !  " 

Then  he  told  his  sister  Sue 
She  must  go  and  do  the  same, 

But,  forgetting  she  was  blue, 
Called  her  by  her  proper  name. 

Loud  enough  laughed  Susan  then, 
And  decfared  she  would  not  say 
Any  longer  Captain  Gray, 

But  would  only  call  him  Ben  ! 

This  was  such  a  dreadful  falling 

Ben  got  angry,  and  alas, 
Made  the  matter  worse,  by  calling 

Little  Tilly,  Hoppergrass  ! 

Fanny  Field,  he  did  make  out 
To  call  Jay-bird,  once  or  twice, 

And,  in  turn,  she  flew  about, 
Chirping  very  wild  and  nice. 

Once  she  tried  to  make  a  wing, 
Holding  wide  her  linsey  gown, 
And  went  flapping  up  and  down, 

Laughing  so  she  could  n't  sing. 

But  the  captain  to  obey 
When  he  called  her  Tilly  May, 

Was  too  hard  for  Mary, 
And  Matilda  —  praise  to  her  — 
Could  not  play  the  grasshopper, 
But  in  honesty  of  heart, 
Quite  forgetful  of  her  part, 

Spoke  to  John  M'Clary  ! 

Thus  the  hay-making  went  on, 

Very  bad  and  very  slow  — 
All  the  worse  that  Joe  and  John 

Now  were  Mister  John  and  Joe  ! 

Work  is  work,  and  play  is  play, 
And  the  two  will  not  be  one  ; 


Therefore  half  the  meadow-hay 
Lay  unraked  at  set  of  sun. 

Then  the  farmer  who  had  hired 
All  the  seven  girls  and  boys, 

Being  out  of  heart,  and  tired 

With  no  work  and  much  of  noise, 

Came  upon  them  all  at  once, 
And  made  havoc  of  their  play. 

Calling  Benjamin  a  dunce, 
In  the  stead  of  Captain  Gray  ! 

So  to  make  excuse,  in  part, 
For  the  unraked  field  of  hay, 

Tilly  —  bless  her  honest  heart ! 
Up  and  told  about  the  play. 

How  that  Benny,  discontented 
With  the  work  of  raking  hay, 

Of  his  own  head  had  invented" 
Such  a  pretty,  pretty  play  ! 

"  Benny  calls  it  Make-believe  !  " 
Tilly  said,  with  cheeks  aglow, 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  to  deceive, 

But  to  make  things  fine,  you  know?  " 

Then  she  said,  that  he  might  see 
Just  how  charming  it  must  be, 
"  Fanny  Field,  sir,  is  a  jay, 

And  her  sister  Mary, 
Is  myself,  Matilda  May, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary, 
Mister  Joe  and  Mister  John  — 
Sue  a  bluebird  and  so  on 
Up  to  lofty  Captain  Gray. 
Oh  it  is  the  funniest  play  ! 
Would  n't  you  like  to  play  it,  sir  ? 
I  was  just  a  grasshopper, 
But  I  could  n't  play  my  part ! 

Hopping,  I  was  sure  to  fall  — 
Somehow,  't  was  not  in  my  heart, 

But  't  was  very  nice,  for  all !  " 

Looking  in  the  farmer's  eyes, 
All  a-tiptoe  stood  the  child  ; 

Half  in  kindliness  he  smiled, 
Half  in  pitiful  surprise. 

Then  he  said,  "  My  little  friends," 
Calling  one  by  one  their  names, 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Benjamin  and  Susan  James, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary, 
And  Matilda  —  "  Life's  great  ends 

Are  not  gained  by  make-believe. 


POEMS  FOR    CHILDREN. 


259 


This  you  ail  must  learn  at  length, 
Lies  are  weak  and  truth  is  strong, 
And  as  much  as  you  deceive, 

Just  so  much  you  lose  of  strength  — 
Right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong. 

"  If  'tis  hay  you  want  to  make, 
Mind  this,  every  one  of  you  ! 

You  must  call  a  rake,  a  rake, 
And  must  use  it  smartly,  too. 

"  Oh,  be  honest  through  and  through  ! 
Cherish  truth  until  it  grows, 
And  through  all  your  being  shows 

Like  the  sunshine  in  the  dew  ! 

"  Using  power  is  getting  power  — 
He  that  giveth  seldom  lacks, 

Doing  right,  wrong  done  retrieves." 
Then  the  children  turned  their  backs 

On  their  foolish  make-believes. 

And  in  just  a  single  hour 

Filled  the  meadow  full  of  stacks  ! 

And  as  home  they  went  that  night, 
Each  and  all  had  double  pay 
For  the  raking  of  that  hay, 

And  the  best  pay  was  delight. 

And  I  think  without  a  doubt, 

If  they  lived  they  all  became 
Wiser  women,  wiser  men 
For  the  lesson  learned  that  day 
Simple-hearted  Tilly  May, 
Fanny  Field  and  Mary. 

Susan  James  and  Benjamin, 

Joe  and  John  M' Clary, 
Leaving  in  their  lives  the  game 

Of  the  make-believing  out ; 
Yes,  I  think  so,  without  doubt. 


A  NUT  HARD  TO  CRACK. 

SAYS  John  to  his  mother,  "  Look  here  ! 

look  here  ! 

For  my  brain  is  on  the  rack  — 
I  have  gotten  a  nut  as  smooth  to  the 

sight 
As  the  shell  of  an  egg,  and  as  fair  and 

white, 

Except  for  a  streak  of  black. 
Why  that  should  mar  it  I  can't  make 

clear." 
And   Johnny's    mother    replied,    "  My 

dear, 
Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 


John,  calling  louder,  "  Look  here  !  look 
here  ! 

I  want  to  get  on  the  track, 
And  trace  the  meaning,  for  never  a  nut 
Had  outside  fairer  than  this  one,  but 

For  this  ugly  streak  of  black  ! 
I  can't  for  my  life  its  use  make  clear." 
And    Johnny's    mother   replied,    "  My 
dear, 

Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 

Then   John,   indignant,    "  Look   here  ! 

look  here  ! 

And  he  gave  the  hammer  a  thwack  ; 
And  there  was  the  nut  quite  broke  in 

two, 
And   all   across   it,   and   through   and 

through, 

The  damaging  streak  of  black  ! 
"  It  grew  with   his  growth,"  he  says, 

"  that 's  clear, 
But   why  !  "    And  his  mother  replied, 

"  My  dear, 
That  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 

Then   John,   in    anger,   "  Look  here  ! 

look  here  ! 

You  may  have  your  wisdom  back. 
The   nut    is    cracked  —  broke    all    to 

splint, 
But  it  does  n't  give  me  even  a  hint 

Toward  showing  why  the  black 
Should   spoil   the   else    sweet    meat." 

"  My  dear," 

Says  Johnny's  mother,  "  it  's  very  clear 
Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack. 

"  For,  John,  whichever  way  we  steer. 
There  is  evil  on  our  track  ; 

And  whence  it  came,  or  how  it  fell, 

No  wisest  man  of  all  can  tell. 
We  only  know  that  black 

Is  mixed   with  white,  and    pain    with 
bliss, 

So  all  that  I  can  say  is  this, 

Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 


HIDE  AND  SEEK. 

As  I  sit  and  watch  at  the  window-pane 
The  light  in  the  sunset  skies, 

The    pictures    rise    in    my   heart    and 

brain, 
As  the  stars  do  in  the  skies. 

Among  the  rest,  doth  rise  and  pass, 
With  the  blue  smoke  curling  o'er, 


26o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


The  house  I  was  born  in,  with  the  grass 
And  roses  round  the  door. 

I  see  the  well-sweep,  rough  and  brown, 
And  I  hear  the  creaking  tell 

Of  the  bucket  going  up  and  down 
On  the  stony  sides  of  the  well. 

I  see  the  cows,  by  the  water-side  — 
Red  Lily,  and  Pink,  and  Star, — 

And  the  oxen  with  their  horns  so  wide, 
Close  locked  in  playful  war. 

I  see  the  field  where  the  mowers  stand 
In  the  clover-flowers,  knee-deep  ; 

And   the  one  with  his  head  upon    his 

hand, 
In  the  locust-shade  asleep. 

I  see  beneath  his  shady  brim, 

The  heavy  eyelids  sealed, 
And  the  mowers  stopping  to  look  at  him, 

As  they  mow  across  the  field. 

I  hear  the  bluebird's  twit-te-tweet ! 

And  the  robin's  whistle  blithe  ; 
And  then  I  see  him  spring  to  his  feet, 

And  take  up  his  shining  scythe. 

I   see  the  barn  with  the  door  swung 

out,  — 

Still  dark  with  its  mildew  streak,  — 
And    the    stacks,  and   the    bushes  all 

about, 
Where  we  played  at  Hide  and  Seek  ! 

I  see  and  count  the  rafters  o'er, 
'Neath  which  the  swallow  sails, 

And  I  see  the  sheaves  on  the  thresh 
ing-floor, 
And  the  threshers  with  the  flails. 

I  hear  the  merry  shout  and  laugh 
Of  the  careless  boys  and  girls, 

As    the    wind-mill   drops    the   golden 

chaff, 
Like  sunshine  in  their  curls. 

The  shadow  of  all  the  years  that  stand 
'Twixt  me  and  my  childhood's  day, 

I  strip  like  a  glove  from  off  my  hand, 
And  am  there  with  the  rest  at  play. 

Out  there,  half  hid  in  its  leafy  screen, 

I  can  see  a  rose-red  cheek, 
And    up   in   the  hay-mow  I  catch  the 
sheen 

Of  the  darling  head  I  seek. 


Just  where  that  whoop  was  smothered 
low, 

I  have  seen  the  branches  stir  ; 
It  is  there  that  Margaret  hides,  I  know, 

And  away  I  chase  for  her  ! 

And     now    with    curls    that    toss    so 
wide 

They  shade  his  eyes  like  a  brim, 
Runs  Dick  for  a  safer  place  to  hide, 

And  I  turn  and  chase  for  him  ! 

And    rounding    close    by   the    jutting 
stack, 

Where  it  hangs  in  a  rustling  sheet, 
In  spite  of  the  body  that  presses  back, 

I  espy  two  tell-tale  feet ! 

Now  all  at  once  with  a  reckless  shout, 
Alphonse  from  his  covert  springs, 

And  whizzes  by,  with  his  elbows  out, 
Like  a  pair  of  sturdy  wings. 

Then  Charley   leaps   from   the    cattle- 
rack, 

And  spins  at  so  wild  a  pace, 
The  grass  seems  fairly  swimming  back 
As  he  shouts,  "  I  am  home  !  Base  ! 
Base  !  " 

While  modest  Mary,  shy  as  a  nun, 
Keeps  close  by  the  grape-vine  wall, 

And  waits,  and  waits,  till  our  game  is 

done, 
And  never  is  found  at  all.       t 

But  suddenly,  at  my  crimson  pane, 
The  lights  grow  dim  and  die, 

And  the  pictures  fade  from  heart  and 

brain, 
As  the  stars  do  from  the  sky. 

The  bundles  slide  from  the  threshing- 
floor, 

And  the  mill  no  longer  whirls, 
And  I  find  my  playmates  now  no  more 

By  their  shining  cheeks  and  curls. 

I  call  them  far,  and  I  call  them  wide, 
From  the  prairie,  and  over  the  sea, 

"  Oh  why  do  you  tarry,  and  where  do 

you  hide  ?  " 
But  they  may  not  answer  me. 

God  grant  that  when  the  sunset  sky 
Of  my  life  shall  cease  to  glow, 

I  may  find  them  waiting  me  on  high, 
As  I  waited  them  below. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


26l 


THREE  BUGS. 

THREE  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  room  for  two  ! 

And  one  was  yellow,  and  one  was  black, 

And  one  like  me,  or  you. 

The  space  was  small,  no  doubt,  for  all ; 

But  what  should  three  bugs  do  ? 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  crumbs  for  two  ; 

And  all  were  selfish  in  their  hearts, 

The  same  as  I  or  you  ; 

So  the  strong  ones  said,  "  We  will  eat 

the  bread, 
And  that  is  what  we  '11  do." 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 
And  the  beds  but  two  would  hold  ; 
So  they  all  three  fell  to  quarreling  — 
The  white,  and  black,  and  the  gold  ; 
And  two  of  the  bugs  got  under  the  rugs, 
And  one  was  out  in  the  cold  ! 

So  he  that  was  left  in  the  basket, 
Without  a  crumb  to  chew, 
Or  a  thread  to  wrap  himself  withal, 
When  the  wind  across  him  blew, 
Pulled  one  of  the  rugs  from  one  of  the 

bugs, 
And  so  the  quarrel  grew  ! 

And  so  there  was  war  in  the  basket, 

Ah,  pity,  'tis, 'tis  true  ! 

But  he 'that  was  frozen  and  starved  at 

last, 

A  strength  from  his  weakness  drew, 
And  pulled  the  rugs  from  both  of  the 

bugs, 
And  killed  and  ate  them,  too  ! 

Now,  when  bugs  live  in  a  basket, 
Though  more  than  it  well  can  hold, 
It  seems  to  me  they  had  better  agree  — 
The    white,    and    the    black,    and    the 

gold  — 
And  share  what  comes  of  the  beds  and 

crumbs, 
And  leave  no  bug  in  the  cold  ! 


WAITING     FOR     SOMETHING    TO 
TURN  UP. 

"AND  why  do  you  throw  down  your 
hoe  by  the  way 

As  if  that  furrow  were  done  ?  " 


It  was  the  good  farmer,  Bartholomew 

Grey, 
That  spoke  on  this  wise  to  his  son. 

Now  Barty,  the  younger,  was  not  very 

bad, 

But  he  did  n't  take  kindly  to  work, 
And  the  father  had  oftentimes  said  of 

the  lad 

That  the    thing  he  did  best  was  to 
shirk  ! 

It  was  early  in  May,  and  a  beautiful 

morn  — 

The  rosebuds  tipt  softly  with  red  — 
The  pea  putting  on  her  white  bloom, 

and  the  corn 
Being  just  gotten  up  out  of  bed. 

And  after  the  first  little  break  of  the 

day 

Had  broadened  itself  on  the  blue, 
The    provident    farmer,    Bartholomew 

Grey, 
Had  driven  afield  through  the  dew. 

His  brown  mare,  Fair  Fanny,  in  collar 

and  harness 
Went    before    him,    so    sturdy   and 

stout, 
And  ere  the  sun's  fire  yet  had  kindled 

to  flames, 

They   had  furrowed    the    field  twice 
about. 

And  still  as  they  came  to  the  southerly 

slope 
He    reined    in     Fair     Fanny,    with 

Whoa  ! 
And  gazed  toward  the  homestead,  and 

gazed,  in  the  hope 
Of  seeing  young  Barty  —  but  no  ! 

"  Asleep  yet  ?  "  he  said  —  "  in  a  minute 

the  horn 
That  shall  call  to  the  breakfast,  will 

sound, 
And  all  these  long  rows  of  the  tender 

young  corn 

Left  choking,  and   ploughed   in   the 
ground  !  " 

Now  this  was  the  work,  which  the  far 
mer  had  planned 
For  Barty  —  a  task  kindly  meant, 
To  follow  the  plough,  with  the  hoe  in 

his  hand, 
And  to  set  up  the  stalks  as  he  went. 


262 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


But   not  till  the  minutes  to  hours   had 

run, 

And  the  heat  was  aglow  far  and  wide, 
Did  he  see  his  slow-footed  and  sleepy- 
eyed  son 
A-dragging  his  hoe  by  his  side. 

Midway  of   the  corn  field  he  stopped, 

gaped  around  ; 
"  What  use  is  there  working  ? "  says 

he, 
And  saying  so,  threw  himself  flat  on  the 

ground 
In  the  shade  of  a  wide-spreading  tree. 

And  this  was  the  time  that  Bartholo 
mew  Grey, 
Fearing  bad  things  might   come    to 

the  worst, 
Drew  rein  on  Fair  Fanny,  the  sweat 

wiped  away, 
And  spoke  as  we  quoted  at  first. 

He  had  thought  to  have  given  the  lad 

such  a  start 
As  would  bring  him  at  once  to  his 

feet, 
And  he  stood  in  the  furrow,  amazed,  as 

young  Bart, 
Lying  lazy,  and  smiling  so  sweet, 

Replied  —  "  The  world  owes  me  a  liv 
ing,  you  see, 

And  something,  or  sooner  or  late, 
I  'm  certain  as  can  be,  will  turn  up  for 

me, 
And  I  am  contented  to  wait  !  " 

"  My  son,"  says  the  farmer,  "  take  this 

to  your  heart, 

For  to  live  in  the  world  is  to  learn, 
The  good  things  that  turn  up  are  for 

the  most  part 
The  things  we  ourselves  help  to  turn  ! 

"  So  boy,  if   you  want   to  be  sure  of 

your  bread 
Ere    the   good   time    of   working   is 

gone, 
Brush  the  cobwebs  of  nonsense  all  out 

of  your  head. 
And  take  up  your  hoe,  and  move  on  !  " 


SUPPOSE. 

How  dreary  would  the  meadows  be 
In  the  pleasant  summer  light, 


Suppose  there  was  n't  a  bird  to  sing. 
And  suppose  the  grass  was  white  ! 

And  dreary  would  the  garden  be, 

With  all  its  flowery  trees, 
Suppose  there  were  no  butterflies, 

And  suppose  there  were  no  bees. 

And  what  would  all  the  beauty  be, 
And  what  the  song  that  cheers, 

Suppose  we  had  n't  any  eyes, 
And  suppose  we  had  n't  ears  ? 

For   though   the  grass  were  gay  and 

green, 

And  song-birds  filled  the  glen, 
And  the  air  were  purple  with  butter 
flies, 
What  good  would  they  do  us  then  ? 

Ah,  think  of  it.  my  little  friends  ; 

And  when  some  pleasure  flies, 
Why,  let  it  go,  and  still  be  glad 

That  you  have  your  ears  and  eyes. 


A   GOOD   RULE. 

A  FARMER,  who  owned  a  fine  orchard, 
one  day 

Went  out  with  his  sons  to  take  a  sur 
vey, 

The  time  of  the  year  being  April  or 
May. 

The  buds  were  beginning  to  break  into 

bloom, 
The  air  all  about  him  was  rich  with 

perfume, 
And  nothing,  at  first,  waked  a  feeling 

of  gloom. 

But  all  at  once,  going  from  this  place 

to  that, 
He  shaded  his  eyes  with  the  brim  of 

his  hat, 
Saying,  "  Here  is  a  tree  dying  out,  that 

is  flat !  " 

He  called  his  sons,  Joseph  and  John, 

and  said  he, 
"This    sweeting,    you   know,    was    my 

favorite  tree  — 
Just  look  at  the  top  now,  and  see  what 

you  see  ! 

"  The  blossoms  are  blighted,  and,  sure 
as  you  live, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


263 


It  won't   have   a  bushel  of  apples  to 

give  ! 
What   ails   it  ?  the   rest   of  the   trees 

seem  to  thrive. 

"  Run,  boys,  bring  hither   your  tools, 

and  don't  stop, 
But  take  every  branch  that  is  falling 

alop, 
And  saw  it  out  quickly,  from  bottom  to 

top  !  " 

"  Yes,  father,"  they  said,  and  away  they 

both  ran  — 
For  they  always  sa\&  father,  and  never 

old  man, 
And  for  my  part  I  don't  see  how  good  | 

children  can. 

And  before  a  half  hour  of  the  morning 

was  gone, 
They  were  back  in  the  orchard,  both 

Joseph  and  John, 
And  presently   all  the   dead  branches 

were  sawn. 

"  Well,    boys,"    said    the    farmer,    "  I 

think,  for  my  share, 
If  the  rain  and  the  sunshine  but  second 

our  care, 
The  old  sweeting  yet  will  be  driven  to 

bear  ! " 

And  so  when  a  month,  may  be  more, 

had  gone  by, 
And  borne  out  the  June,  and  brought 

in  the  July, 
He  came  back  the  luck  of  the  pruning 

to  try. 

And    lo  !     when     the     sweeting    was 

reached,  it  was  found 
That  windfalls    enough   were    strewn 

over  the  ground, 
But  never  an  apple  all   blushing   and 

sound. 

Then  the  farmer  said,  shaping  his  mo 
tions  to  suit, 

First  up  to  the  boughs  and  then  down 
to  the  fruit, 

"  Come  Johnny,  come  Joseph,  and  dig 
to  the  root  !  " 

And  straightway  they  came  with  their 
spades  and  their  hoes, 

And  threw  off  their  jackets,  and  shout 
ing,  "  Here  goes  !  " 


They  digged  down  and  down  with  the 
sturdiest  blows. 

And,  by  and  by,  Joseph  his  grubbing- 

hoe  drew 
From  the  earth  and  the  roots,  crying. 

"Father,  look  !  do  !  " 
And  he  pointed  his  words  with  the  toe 

of  his  shoe  ! 

And  the  farmer  said,  shaping  a  gesture 

to  suit, 
"  I  see  why  our  sweeting  has  brought 

us  no  fruit  — 
There  's  a  worm    sucking  out   all    the 

sap  at  the  root  !  " 

Then   John   took   his   spade   with    an 

awful  grimace, 
And   lifted   the   ugly  thing   out  of  its 

place, 
And  put  the  loose  earth  back  in  very 

short  space. 

And  when  the  next  year  came,  it  only 

is  fair 
To  say,  that  the  sweeting  rewarded  the 

care, 
And  bore  them   good   apples,  enough 

and  to  spare. 

And  now,  my  dear  children,  whenever 

you  see 
A  life  that  is  profitless,  think  of  that 

tree  ; 
For   ten    chances    to   one,  you  '11    find 

there  will  be 

Some  habit  of  evil  indulged  day  by  day, 
And  hid  as  the  earth-worm  was  hid  in 

the  clay, 
That  is  steadily  sapping  the  life-blood 

away. 

The  fruit,  when  the  blossom  is  blighted, 
will  fall ; 

The  sin  will  be  searched  out,  no  mat 
ter  how  small  ; 

So,  what  you  're  ashamed  to  do,  don't 
do  at  all. 


TO   MOTHER   FAIRIE. 

GOOD  old  mother  Fairie, 
Sitting  by  your  fire, 

Have  you  any  little  folk 
You  would  like  to  hire  ? 


264 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


I  want  no  chubby  drudges 
To  milk,  and  churn,  and  spin, 

Nor  old  and  wrinkled  Brownies, 
With  grisly  beards,  and  thin  : 

But  patient  little  people, 

With  hands  of  busy  care, 
And  gentle  speech,  and  loving  hearts  ; 

Say,  have  you  such  to  spare  ? 

I  know  a  poor,  pale  body, 
Who  cannot  sleep  at  night, 

And  I  want  the  little  people 
To  keep  her  chamber  bright  ; 

To  chase  away  the  shadows 

That  make  her  moan  and  weep, 

To  sing  her  loving  lullabies, 
And  kiss  her  eyes  asleep. 

And  when  in  dreams  she  reaches 
For  pleasures  dead  and  gone, 

To  hold  her  wasted  fingers, 
And  make  the  rings  stay  on. 

They  must  be  very  cunning 

To  make  the  future  shine 
Like  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  strawber 
ries, 

A-growing  on  one  vine. 

Good  old  mother  Fairie, 

Since  my  need  you  know, 
Tell  me,  have  you  any  folk 

Wise  enough  to  go  ? 


BARBARA   BLUE. 

THERE  was  an  old  woman 
Named  Barbara  Blue, 

But  not  the  old  woman 
Who  lived  in  a  shoe, 

And  did  n't  know  what 
With  her  children  to  do. 

For  she  that  I  tell  of 

Lived  all  alone, 
A  miserly  creature 

As  ever  was  known. 
And  had  never  a  chick 

Or  child  of  her  own. 

She  kept  very  still, 

Some  said  she  was  meek  ; 
Others  said  she  was  only 

Too  stingy  to  speak  ; 


That  her  little  dog  fed 
On  one  bone  for  a  week  ! 

She  made  apple-pies, 

And  she  made  them  so  tart 
That  the  mouths  of  the  children 

Who  ate  them  would  smart  ; 
And  these  she  went  peddling 

About  in  a  cart. 

One  day,  on  her  travels, 
She  happened  to  meet 

A  farmer,  who  said 

He  had  apples  so  sweet 

That  all  the  town's-people 
Would  have  them  to  eat. 

"And  how  do  you  sell  them  ?" 

Says  Barbara  Blue. 
"  Why,  if  you  want  only 

A  bushel  or  two," 
Says  the  farmer,  "  I  don't  mind 

To  give  them  to  you." 

"  What !  give  me  a  bushel  ?  " 

Cries  Barbara  Blue, 
"  A  bushel  of  apples, 

And  sweet  apples,  too  !  " 
"  Be  sure,"  says  the  farmer, 

"  Be  sure,  ma'am,  I  do." 

And  then  he  said  if  she 

Would  give  him  a  tart 
(She  had  a  great  basket  full 

There  in  her  cart), 
He  would  show  her  the  orchard, 

And  then  they  would  part. 

So  she  picked  out  a  little  one, 

Burnt  at  the  top, 
And  held  it  a  moment, 

And  then  let  it  drop, 
And  then  said  she  had  n't 

A  moment  to  stop, 
And  drove  her  old  horse 

Away,  hippity  hop  ! 

One  night  when  the  air  was 
All  blind  with  the  snow, 

Dame  Barbara,  driving 
So  soft  and  so  slow 

That  the  farmer  her  whereabouts 
Never  would  know, 

Went  after  the  apples  ; 

And  avarice  grew 
When  she  saw  their  red  coats, 

Till,  before  she  was  through, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


265 


She  took  twenty  bushels, 
Instead  of  the  two  ! 

She  filled  the  cart  full, 
And  she  heaped  it  a-top, 

And  if  just  an  apple 
Fell  off,  she  would  stop, 

And  then  drive  ahead  again, 
Hippity  hop  ! 

Her  horse  now  would  stumble, 
And  now  he  would  fall, 

And  where  the  high  river-bank 
Sloped  like  a  wall, 

Sheer  down,  they  went  over  it, 
Apples  and  all ! 


TAKE   CARE. 

LITTLE  children,  you  must  seek 
Rather  to  be  good  than  wise, 

For  the  thoughts  you  do  not  speak 
Shine  out  in  your  cheeks  and  eyes. 

If  you  think  that  you  can  be 
Cross  or  cruel,  and  look  fair, 

Let  me  tell  you  how  to  see 
You  are  quite  mistaken  there. 

Go  and  stand  before  the  glass, 
And  some  ugly  thought  contrive, 

And  my  word  will  come  to  pass 
Just  as  sure  as  you  're  alive  ! 

What  you  have,  and  what  you  lack, 
All  the  same  as  what  you  wear, 

You  will  see  reflected  back  ; 
So,  my  little  folks,  take  care  ! 

And  not  only  in  the  glass 

Will  your  secrets  come  to  view  ; 

All  beholders,  as  they  pass, 

Will  perceive  and  know  them  too. 

Goodness  shows  in  blushes  bright, 
Or  in  eyelids  dropping  down, 

Like  a  violet  from  the  light ; 
Badness,  in  a  sneer  or  frown. 

Out  of  sight,  my  boys  and  girls, 
Every  root  of  beauty  starts  ; 

So  think  less  about  your  curls, 

More  about  your  minds  and  hearts. 

Cherish  what  is  good,  and  drive 
Evil  thoughts  and  feelings  far  ; 


For,  as  sure  as  you  're  alive, 
You  will  show  for  what  you  are. 


THE  GRATEFUL  SWAN. 

ONE  day,  a  poor  peddler, 

Who  carried  a  pack, 
Felt  something  come 

Flippity-flop  on  his  back. 

He  looked  east  and  west, 

He  turned  white,  he  turned  red, 

Then  bent  his  back  lower, 
And  traveled  ahead. 

The  sun  was  gone  down 
When  he  entered  his  door, 

And  loosened  the  straps 

From  his  shoulders  once  more. 

Then  up  sprang  his  wife, 

Crying,  "  Bless  your  heart,  John, 
Here,  sitting  atop  of  your  pack, 

Is  a  swan. 

"A  wing  like  a  lily, 

A  beak  like  a  rose  ; 
Now  good  luck  go  with  her 

Wherever  she  goes  !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  cried  the  peddler, 
"  What  fullness  of  crop  ! 

No  wonder  I  felt  her 
Come  flippity-flop  ! 

"  I  '11  bet  you,  good  wife, 
All  the  weight  of  my  pack, 

I  've  carried  that  bird 

For  ten  miles  on  my  back  !  " 

"  Perhaps,"  the  wife  answered, 

"  She  '11  lay  a  gold  egg 
To  pay  you  ;  but,  bless  me  ! 

She  's  broken  a  leg." 

Then  went  to  the  cupboard, 
And  brought  from  the  shelf 

A  part  of  the  supper 

She  'd  meant  for  herself. 

Of  course  two  such  nurses 

Effected  a  cure  ; 
One  leg  stiff,  but  better 

Than  none,  to  be  sure  ! 

'•  No  wonder,"  says  John, 
As  she  stood  there  a-lop, 


266 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


"  That  I  should  have  felt  her 
Come  flippity-flop  !  " 

Then  straight  to  his  pack 

For  a  bandage  he  ran, 
While  Jannet,  the  good  wife, 

To  splints  broke  her  fan  ; 

And,  thinking  no  longer 

About  the  gold  egg, 
All  tenderly  held  her 

And  bound  up  the  leg  ; 

All  summer  they  lived 

Thus  together  —  the  swan, 

And  peddler  and  peddler's  wife 
Jannet  and  John. 

At  length,  when  the  leaves 
In  the  garden  grew  brown, 

The  bird  came  one  day 

With  her  head  hanging  down  ; 

And  told  her  kind  master 

And  mistress  so  dear, 
She  was  going  to  leave  them 

Perhaps  for  a  year. 

"  What  mean  you  ?  "  cried  Jannet, 
"  What  mean  you  ?  "  cried  John. 

"  You  will  see,  if  I  ever 
Come  back,"  said  the  swan. 

And  so,  with  the  tears 

Rolling  down,  drip-a-drop, 

She  lifted  her  snowy  wings, 
Flippity-flop  ! 

And  sailed  away,  stretching 

Her  legs  and  her  neck, 
Till  all  they  could  see 

Was  a  little  white  speck. 

Then  Jannet  said,  turning 

Her  eyes  upon  John, 
But  speaking,  no  doubt, 

Of  the  bird  that  was  gone  : 

"A  wing  like  a  lily, 

A  beak  like  a  rose  ; 
And  good  luck  go  with  her 

Wherever  she  goes  !  " 

The  winter  was  weary, 

But  vanished  at  last, 
As  all  winters  will  do  ; 

And  when  it  was  past, 


And  doffies  beginning 

To  show  their  bright  heads, 
One  day  as  our  Jannet 

Was  making  the  beds  — 

The  beds  in  the  garden, 
I  'd  have  you  to  know, 

She  saw  in  the  distance 
A  speck  white  as  snow. 

She  saw  it  sail  nearer 
And  nearer,  then  stop 

And  land  in  her  garden  path, 
Flippity-flop  ! 

One  moment  of  wonder, 
Then  cried  she,  "  O  John  ! 

As  true  as  you  're  living,  man, 
Here  is  our  swan  ! 

"  And  by  her  sleek  feathers, 
She  comes  from  the  south  ; 

But  what  thing  is  this 

Shining  so  in  her  mouth  ?  " 

"  A  diamond  !  "  cried  Johnny  ; 

The  swan  nearer  drew, 
And  dropped  it  in  Jannet's 

Nice  apron  of  blue  ; 

Then  held  up  the  mended  leg 

Quite  to  her  crop, 
And  danced  her  great  wings 

About,  flippity-flop  ! 

"  I  never  beheld  such  a  bird 

In  my  life  !  " 
Cried  Johnny,  the  peddler  ; 

"  Nor  I  !  "  said  his  wife. 


A  SHORT  SERMON. 

CHILDREN,  who  read  my  lay, 
Thus  much  I  have  to  say  : 
Each  day,  and  every  day, 

Do  what  is  right ! 
Right  things,  in^great  and  small  ; 
Then,  though  the  sky  should  fall, 
Sun,  moon,. and  stars,  and  all, 

You  shall  have  light  ! 

This  further  I  would  say : 
Be  you  tempted  as  you  may, 
Each  day,  and  every  day, 
Speak  what  is  true  ! 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


26; 


True  things,  in  great  and  small  ; 
Then,  though  the  sky  should  fall, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  all, 
Heaven  would  show  through  ! 

Figs,  as  you  see  and  know, 
Do  not  out  of  thistles  grow  ; 
And,  though  the  blossoms  blow 

White  on  the  tree, 
Grapes  never,  never  yet 
On  the  limbs  of  thorns  were  set  ; 
So,  if  you  a  good  would  get, 

Good  you  must  be  ! 

Life's  journey,  through  and  through, 
Speaking  what  is  just  and  true  ; 
Doing  what  is  right  to  do 

Unto  one  and  all, 

When  you  work  and  when  you  play, 
Each  day,  and  every  day  ; 
Then  peace  shall  gild  your  way, 

Though  the  sky  should  fall. 


STORY  OF  A  BLACKBIRD. 

COME,  gather  round  me,  children, 
Who  just  as  you  please  would  do, 

And  hear  me  tell  what  fate  befell, 
A  blackbird  that  I  knew. 

He  lived  one  year  in  our  orchard, 
From  spring  till  fall,  you  see, 

And  swung  and  swung,  and  sung  and 

sung, 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree. 

He  had  a  blood-red  top-knot, 

And    wings    that     were     tipped    to 

match  : 
And  he  held  his  head  as  if  he  said, 

"  I  'm  a  fellow  hard  to  catch  !  " 

And  never  built  himself  a  nest, 
Nor  took  a  mate  —  not  he  ! 

But  swung  and  swung,  and  sung  and 

sung, 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree. 

And  yet,  the  little  bluebird, 

So  modest  and  so  shy, 
Could  beat  him  to  death  with  a  single 
breath, 

If  she  had  but  a  mind  to  try. 

And  the  honest,  friendly  robin, 
That  went  in  a  russet  coat, 


Though  he  was  n't  the  bird  that  sung  to 

be  heard, 
Had  twice  as  golden  a  throat. 

But  robin,  bluebird,  and  all  the  birds, 
Were  afraid  as  they  could  be  ; 

He  looked  so  proud  and  sung  so  loud, 
Atop  of  the  highest  tree. 

We  often  said,  we  children, 

He  only  wants  to  be  seen  ! 
For  his  bosom  set  like  a  piece  of  jet, 

In  the  glossy  leaves  of  green. 

He   dressed    his   feathers    again    and 

again, 

Till  the  oil  did  fairly  run, 
And    the   tuft  on    his    head,  of  bright 

blood-red, 
Like  a  ruby  shone  in  the  sun. 

But  summer  lasts  not  always, 

And  the  leaves  they  faded  brown  ; 

And  when  the  breeze  went  over  the 

trees, 
They  fluttered  down  and  down. 

The  robin,  and  wren,  and  bluebird, 
They  sought  a  kindlier  clime  ; 

But  the  blackbird  cried,  in  his  foolish 

pride, 
"  I  '11  see  my  own  good  time  !  " 

And  whistled,  whistled,  and  whistled, 

Perhaps  to  hide  his  pain  ; 
Until,  one  day,  the  air  grew  gray, 

With  the  slant  of  the  dull,  slow  rain. 

And  then,  wing-tip  and  top-knot, 
They  lost  their  blood-red  shine  ; 

Unhoused  to  be,  in  the  top  of  a  tree, 
Was  not  so  very  fine  ! 

At  first  he  cowered  and  shivered, 
And  then  he  ceased  to  sing, 

And  then  he  spread  about  his  head, 
One  drenched  and  dripping  wing. 

And  stiflfer  winds  at  sunset, 

Began  to  beat  and  blow  ; 
And   next    daylight    the    ground    was 
white 

With  a  good  inch-depth  of  snow  ! 

And  oh,  for  the  foolish  blackbird, 
That  had  n't  a  house  for  his  head  ! 

The  bitter  sleet  began  at  his  feet 
And  chilled  and  killed  him  dead  ! 


268 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  the  rabbit,  when  he  saw  him, 
Enrapt  in  his  snowy  shroud, 

Let  drop  his  ears*  and  said,  with  tears, 
"  This  comes  of  being  proud." 


FAIRY-FOLK. 

THE  story-books  have  told  you 

Of  the  fairy-folks  so  nice, 
That  make  them  leathern  aprons 

Of  the  ears  of  little  mice  ; 
And  wear  the  leaves  of  roses, 

Like  a  cap  upon  their  heads, 
And  sleep  at  night  on  thistle-down, 

Instead  of  feather  beds  ! 

These  stories,  too,  have  told  you, 

No  doubt  to  your  surprise, 
That  the  fairies  ride  in  coaches 

That  are  drawn  by  butterflies  ; 
And  come  into  your  chambers, 

When  you  are  locked  in  dreams, 
And  right  across  your  counterpanes 

Make  bold  to  drive  their  teams  ; 
And  that  they  heap  your  pillows 

With  their  gifts  of  rings  and  pearls  ; 
But  do  not  heed  such  idle  tales, 

My  little  boys  and  girls. 

There  are  no  fairy-folk  that  ride 

About  the  world  at  night, 
Who  give  you  rings  and  other  things, 

To  pay  for  doing  right. 
But  if  you  do  to  others  what 

You  'd  have  them  do  to  you, 
You  '11  be  as  blest  as  if  the  best 

Of  story-books  were  true. 


BURIED   GOLD. 

IN  a  little  bird's-nest  of  a  house, 
About  the  color  of  a  mouse, 

And  low,  and  quaint,  and  square  — 
Twenty  feet,  perhaps,  in  all — 
With  never  a  chamber  nor  a  hall, 

There  lived  a  queer  old  pair 
Once  on  a  time.     They  are  dead  and 

gone  ; 
But  in  their  day  their  names  were  John 

And  Emeline  Adair. 

John  used  to  sit  and  take  his  ease, 
With  two  great  patches  at  his  knees, 

And  spectacles  on  his  nose, 
With  a  bit  of  twine  or  other  thread, 


That  met  behind  his  heavy  head 
And  tied  the  big  brass  bows. 

His  jacket  was  a  snuffy  brown, 
His  coat  was  just  a  farmer's  gown, 

That  once  had  been  bright  blue  ; 
But  the  oldest  man  could  hardly  say 
When  it  was  not  less  blue  than  gray, 
It  was  frayed  and  faded  such  a  way, 

And  both  the  elbows  through  ! 

But,  somehow  or  other,  Emeline 
Went  dressed  in  silks  and  laces  fine ; 

She  was  proud  and  high  of  head, 
And  she  used  to  go,  and  go,  and  go, 
Through  mud  and  mire,  and  rain  and 

snow, 

Visiting  high  and  visiting  low, 
As  idle  gossips  will  you  know  ; 
And  many  a  thing  that  was  n't  so 

She  told,  the  neighbors  said. 

Amongst   the   rest   that   her  husband 

John, 
Though    his   gown   was   poor   to  look 

upon, 

And  his  trowsers  patched  and  old, 
Had  money  to   spend,   and  money  to 

spare, 

As  sure  as  her  name  was  Mrs.  Adair ; 
And   though    she    said   it,  who  say  it 

should  not, 

Somewhere  back  or  front  of  their  lot, 
He  had  buried  her  iron  dinner-pot, 
A   pewter  pan,  and   she    did  n't   know 

what 
Beside,  chock-full  of  gold  ! 

Well,  by  and  by  her  tongue  got  still, 
That  had  clattered  and  clattered  like  a 

mill, 

Little  for  good,  and  a  good  deal  for  ill, 
Having  all  her  life- time  had  her  will  — 

The  poor  old  woman  died  : 
And  John,  when  he  missed  the  whirl 

and  whir 

Of  her  goosey-gabble,  refused  to  stir, 
But  moped  till  he  broke  his  heart  for 

her; 
And  they  laid  him  by  her  side. 

And  lo  !  his  neighbors,  young  and  old, 
Who  had  heard  about  the  pot  of  gold 
Of  which  old  Mrs.  Adair  had  told, 
Got  spades,  and  picks,  and  bars. 
You  would  have  thought,  had  you  seen 

them  dig, 
Sage  and  simple,  little  and  big, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


269 


Up  and  clown  and  across  the  lot, 
They  expected  not  only  to  find  the  pot 
And  the  pan,  but  the  moon  and  stars  ! 

Just  one,  and  only  one  man  stayed 
At  home  and  plied  an. honest  trade, 

Contented  to  be  told 
How  they  digged  down  under  the  shed, 
And  up  and  out  through  the  turnip-bed, 
Turning  every  inch  of  the  lot, 
And  never  finding  sign  of  the  pot 

That  was  buried  full  of  gold  ! 

And  when   ten  years  were  come  and 

gone, 
And  poor  old  Emeline  and  John 

Had  nearly  been  forgot, 
This  careful,  quiet  man  that  stayed 
At  home  and  plied  an  honest  trade, 

Was  the  owner  of  the  lot  — 
Such  luck  to  industry  doth  fall. 
And  he  built  a  house  with  a  stately  hall, 
Full  fifty  feet  from  wall  to  wall  : 

And  the  foolish  ones  were  envious 
That  he  should  be  rewarded  thus 

Upon  the  very  spot 
"Where  they  had  digged  their  strength 

away, 

Day  and  night,   till  their   heads  were 
gray. 

In  search  of  the  pan  and  pot 
Which  Mrs.  Emeline  Adair 
Had  made  believe  were  buried  there, 

As  buried  they  were  not. 


RECIPE   FOR  AN   APPETITE. 

MY  lad,  who  sits  at  breakfast 
With  forehead  in  a  frown, 

Because  the  chop  is  under-done, 
And  the  fritter  over-brown,  — 

Just  leave  your  dainty  mincing, 
And  take,  to  mend  your  fare, 

A  slice  of  golden  sunshine, 
And  a  cup  of  the  morning  air. 

And  when  you  have  eat  and  drunken. 

If  you  want  a  little  fun, 
Throw  by  your  jacket  of  broadcloth, 

And  take  an  up-hill  run. 

And  what  with  one  and  the  other 
You  will  be  so  strong  and  gay, 

That  work  will  be  only  a  pleasure 
Through  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 


And  when  it  is  time  for  supper, 
Your  bread  and  milk  will  be 

As  sweet  as  a  comb  of  honey. 
Will  you  try  my  recipe  ? 


THE   PIG   AND   THE   HEN. 

THE  pig  and  the  hen, 

They  both  got  in  one  pen, 
And  the  hen  said  she  would  n't  go  out. 

"Mistress  Hen,"  says  the  pig, 

"  Don't  you  be  quite  so  big  !  " 
And  he  gave  her  a  push  with  his  snout. 

"  You  are  rough,  and  you  're  fat, 

But  who  cares  for  all  that ; 
I  will  stay  if  I  choose,"  says  the  hen. 

"  No,  mistress,  no  longer  !  " 

Says  pig  :  "  I  'm  the  stronger, 
And  mean  to  be  boss  of  my  pen  !  " 

Then  the  hen  cackled  out 

Just  as  close  to  his  snout 
As  she  dare  :  "  You  're  an  ill-natured 
brute  ; 

And  if  I  had  the  corn, 

Just  as  sure  as  I  ?m  born, 
I  would  send  you  to  starve  or  to  root !  " 

"  But  you  don't  own  the  cribs  ; 

So  I  think  that  my  ribs 
Will  be  never  the  leaner  for  you  : 

This  trough  is  my  trough, 

And  the  sooner  you  're  off," 
Says  the  pig,  "  why  the  better  you  '11 
do  !  " 

"  You  're  not  a  bit  fair, 

And  you  're  cross  as  a  bear  : 
What  harm  do  I  do  in  your  pen  ? 

But  a  pig  is  a  pig, 

And  I  don't  care  a  fig 
For  the  worst  you  can  say,"  says  the 
hen. 

Says  the  pig,  "  You  will  care 

If  I  act  like  a  bear 

And  tear   your  two  wings  from   your 
neck." 

"  What  a  nice  little  pen 

You  have  got  !  "  says  the  hen, 
Beginning  to  scratch  and  to  peck. 

Now  the  pig  stood  amazed, 
And  the  bristles,  upraised 
A  moment  past,  fell  down  so  sleek. 
"  Neighbor  Biddy,"  says  he, 


270 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


"  If  you  '11  just  allow  me, 
I  will  show  you  a  nice  place  to  pick  !  " 

So  she  followed  him  off, 
And  they  ate  from  one  trough  — 
They  had  quarreled  for  nothing,  they 

saw  ; 

And  when  they  had  fed, 
"  Neighbor  Hen,"  the  pig  said, 
"  Won't  you  stay  here  and  roost  in  my 
straw  ?  " 

"  No,  I  thank  you  ;  you  see 

That  I  sleep  in  a  tree." 
Says  the  hen  ;  "  but  I  must  go  away  ; 

So  a  grateful  good-by." 

"  Make  your  home  in  my  sty." 
Says  the  pig,  "  and  come  in  every  day." 

Now  my  child  will  not  miss 

The  true  moral  of  this 
Little  story  of  anger  and  strife  ; 

For  a  word  spoken  soft 

Will  turn  enemies  oft 
Into  friends  that  will  stay  friends  for 
life. 


SPIDER   AND    FLY. 

ONCE  when  morn  was  flowing  in, 

Broader,  redder,  wider, 
In  her  house  with  walls  so  thin 

That  they  could  not  hide  her, 
Just  as  she  would  never  spin, 

Sat  a  little  spicier  — 
Sat  she  on  her  silver  stairs, 
Meek  as  if  she  said  her  prayers. 

Came  a  fly,  whose  wings  had  been 

Making  circles  wider, 
Having  but  the  buzz  and  din 

Of  herself  to  guide  her. 
Nearer  to  these  walls  so  thin, 

Nearer  to  the  spider, 
Sitting  on  her  silver  stairs, 
Meek  as  if  she  said  her  prayers. 

Said  the  silly  fly,  "  Too  long 

Malice  has  belied  her  ; 
How  should  she  do  any  wrong, 

With  no  walls  to  hide  her  ?  " 
So  she  buzzed  her  pretty  song 

To  the  wily  spider, 
Sitting  on  her  silver  stairs 
Meek  as  though  she  said  her  prayers. 


But  in  spite  her  modest  mien, 
Had  the  fly  but  eyed  her 

Close  enough,  she  would  have  seen 
Fame  had  not  belied  her  — 

That,  as  she  had  always  been, 
She  was  still  a  spider  ; 

And  that  she  was  not  at  prayers, 

Sitting  on  her  silver  stairs. 


A  LESSON  OF  MERCY. 

A  BOY  named  Peter 
Found  once  in  the  road 

All  harmless  and  helpless, 
A  poor  little  toad  ; 

And  ran  to  his  playmate, 

And  all  out  of  breath 
Cried,  "John,  come  and  help, 

And  we  '11  stone  him  to  death  !  " 

And  picking  up  stones, 
The  two  went  on  the  run, 

Saying,  one  to  the  other, 
"  Oh  won't  we  have  fun  ?  " 

Thus  primed  and  all  ready, 
They  'd  got  nearly  back, 

When  a  donkey  came 

Dragging  a  cart  on  the  track. 

Now  the  cart  was  as  much 
As  the  donkey  could  draw, 

And  he  came  with  his  head 
Hanging  down  ;  so  he  saw, 

All  harmless  and  helpless, 

The  poor  little  toad, 
A-taking  his  morning  nap 

Right  in  the  road. 

He  shivered  at  first, 

Then  he  drew  back  his  leg, 
And  set  up  his  ears, 

Never  moving  a  peg. 

Then  he  gave  the  poor  toad, 
With  his  warm  nose  a  dump, 

And  he  woke  and  got  off 
With  a  hop  and  a  jump. 

And  then  with  an  eye 

Turned  on  Peter  and  John, 

And  hanging  his  homely  head 
Down,  he  went  on. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


271 


"  We  can't  kill  him  now,  John," 
Says  Peter,  "  that  's  flat, 

In  the  face  of  an  eye  and 
An  action  like  that  !  " 

"  For  my  part,  I  have  n't 
The  heart  to,"  says  John  ; 

"But,  the  load  is  too  heavy 
That  donkey  has  on  : 

"  Let  's  help  him  ;  "  so  both  lads 

Set  off  with  a  will 
And  came  up  with  the  cart 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

And  when  each  a  shoulder 

Had  put  to  the  wheel, 
They  helped  the  poor  donkey 

A  wonderful  deal. 

When  they  got  to  the  top 
Back  again  they  both  run, 

Agreeing'they  never 
Had  had  better  fun. 


THE   FLOWER    SPIDER.1 

You  'VE  read  of  a  spider,  I  suppose, 
Dear  children,  or  been  told, 

That  has  a  back  as  red  as  a  rose, 
And  legs  as  yellow  as  gold. 

Well,  one  of  these  fine  creatures  ran 
In  a  bed  of  flowers,  you  see, 

Until  a  drop  of  dew  in  the  sun 
Was  hardly  as  bright  as  she. 

Her  two   plump   sides,  they  were  be 
sprent 

With  speckles  of  all  dyes, 
And    little   shimmering    streaks   were 

bent 
Like  rainbows  round  her  eyes. 


Well,  when  she  saw  her  legs  a-shine, 
And  her  back  as  red  as  a  rose, 

She  thought  that  she  herself  was  fine 
Because  she  had  fine  clothes  ! 

Then  wild  she  grew,  like  one  possessed, 
For  she  thought,  upon  my  word, 

That    she    was  n't   a   spider    with    the 

rest, 
And  set  up  for  a  bird  ! 

1  A  spider  that  lives  among  flowers,  and  takes  its 
color  from  them. 


Aye,  for  a  humming-bird  at  that  ! 

And  the  summer  day  all  through, 
With  her  head  in  a  tulip-bell  she  sat, 

The  same  as  the  hum-birds  do. 

She  had  her  little  foolish  day, 
But  her  pride  was  doomed  to  fall, 

And  what  do  you  think  she  had  to  pay 
In  the  ending  of  it  all  ? 

Just  this  ;  on  dew  she  could  not  sup, 
And  she  could  not  sup  on  pride, 

And  so,  with  her  head  in  the  tulip  cup, 
She  starved  until  she  died  ! 

For  in  despite  of  the  golden  legs, 
And  the  back  as  red  as  a  rose, 
With  what  is  hatched  from  the  spider's 

ecrcrg 

&)? 

The  spider's  nature  goes  ! 


DAN     AND     DIMPLE,    AND 
THEY   QUARRELED. 


HOW 


To  begin,  in  things  quite  simple 
Quarrels  scarcely  ever  fail  — 

And  they  fell  out,  Dan  and  Dimple, 
All  about  a  horse's  tail  ! 

So  that  by  and  by  the  quarrel 

Quite   broke   up   and    spoiled    their 
play; 

Danny  said  the  tail  was  sorrel, 
Dimple  said  that  it  was  gray  ! 

"Gray!"  said  Danny,  "you  are  sim- 

'  pie  !  " 

"Just  as  gray  as  mother's  shawl !  " 
"  And  that 's  red  !  "    Said  saucy  Dim 
ple, 
"  You  're  a  fool,  and  that  is  all  !  " 

Then  the  sister  and  the  brother  — 
As  indeed  they  scarce  could  fail, 

In  such  anger,  struck  each  other  — 
All  about  the  horse's  tail ! 

"Red!  "  cried  Dimple,  speaking  loudly, 
"  How  you  play  at  fast  and  loose  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Danny,  still  more  proudly, 
"  When  I  'm  playing  with  a  goose  !  " 

In  between  them  came  the  mother  : 
"  What  is  all  this  fuss  about  ?" 

Then  the  sister  and  the  brother 
Told  the  story,  out  and  out. 


2/2 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


And  she  answered,  "  I  must  label 
Each  of  you  a  little  dunce, 

Since  to  look  into  the  stable 
Would  have  settled  it  at  once  !  " 

Forth  ran  Dan  with  Dimple  after, 
And  full  soon  came  hurrying  back 

Shouting,  all  aglee  with  laughter, 
That  the  horse's  tail  was  black  ! 

So  they  both  agreed  to  profit 
By  the  lesson  they  had  learned, 

And  to  tell  each  other  of  it 
Often  as  the  fit  returned. 


TO  A  HONEY-BEE. 

"  BUSY-BODY,  busy-body, 

Always  on  the  wing, 
Wait  a  bit,  where  you  have  lit, 

And  tell  me  why  you  sing." 

Up,  and  in  the  air  again, 

Flap,  flap,  flap  ! 
And  now  she  stops,  and  now  she  drops 

Into  the  rose's  lap. 

"  Come,  just  a  minute  come, 

From  your  rose  so  red." 
Hum,  hum,  hum,  hum  — 

That  was  all  she  said. 

Busy-body,  busy-body, 

Always  light  and  gay, 
It  seems  to  me,  for  all  I  see, 

Your  work  is  only  play. 

And  now  the  day  is  sinking  to 

The  goldenest  of  eves, 
And  she  doth  creep  for  quiet  sleep 

Among  the  lily-leaves. 

"  Come,  just  a  moment  come, 

From  your  snowy  bed." 
Hum,  hum,  hum,  hum  — 

That  was  all  she  said. 

But,  the  while  I  mused,  I  learned 

The  secret  of  her  way : 
Do  my  part  with  cheerful  heart, 

And  turn  my  work  to  play. 


AT    THE   TAVERN. 

"  WHAT  'LL  you  have,  John  ? 
Cider  or  gin  ? 


Or  something  stronger  ? 

Walk  right  in. 
Hurry  up,  landlord, 

With  main  and  might, 
And  don't  make  a  thirsty  man 

Wait  all  night ! 

"  Not  any  cider  ? 

And  ale  won't  do. 
A  brandy-smasher,  then, 

Glasses  for  two  ! 
And  mind  you,  landlord, 

Mix  it  strong, 
And  don't  keep  us  waiting  here 

All  night  long  ! 

"  Not  any  brandy  ? 

Landlord,  drum 
Something  or  other  up. 

Got  any  rum  ? 
Step  about  lively  ! 

Hot  and  strong, 
And  don't,  keep  us  waiting  here 

All  night  long  ! 

"  Not  any  toddy  ? 

Not  the  least  little  bit  ? 
Whiskey  and  water,  then, 

That  must  be  it  ! 
Step  about,  landlord, 

We  're  all  right, 
And  don't  make  a  thirsty  man 

Wait  all  night  !  " 

"  What 's  wrong  now,  John  ? 

Come,  sit  down. 
Don't  you  like  white  sugar  ? 

Then  have  brown. 
And,  landlord,  hark  ye, 

Cigars  and  a  light, 
And  don't  keep  us  waiting  here 

Quite  all  night  !  " 

"What '11  I  have,  man? 

The  right,  to  be  sure, 
To  keep  all  the  sense  that 

God  gave  me  secure  ! 
The  right  to  myself,  man, 

And,  in  the  next  place, 
The  right  to  look  all 

Honest  men  in  the  face  ! 

"  So,  waiter,  you  need  not 

Be  off  on  the  run 
Till  I  've  countermanded 

All  orders  but  one  : 
No  liquor,  no  sugar, 

Nor  brown,  nor  yet  white, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


2/3 


And  don't  fetch  cigars  in, 
And  don't  fetch  a  light  ! 

We  're  on  our  way  home 

To  our  children  and  wives, 
And  would  n't  stay  plaguing  them 

Not  for  our  lives  ; 
Fetch  only  the  water, 

The  rest  is  all  wrong, 
We  can't  take  the  chances 

O_  staying  too  long." 


WHAT   A   BIRD   TAUGHT. 

"  WHY  do  you  come  to  my  apple-tree, 

Little  bird  so  gray  ?  " 
Twit-twit,  twit-twit,  twit-twit-twee  ! 
.     That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  Why  do  you  lock  your  rosy  feet 
So  closely  round  the  spray  ?  " 

Twit-twit,  twit-twit,  twit-tweet ! 
That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  Why  on  the  topmost  bough  do  you 
get, 

Little  bird  so  gray  ?  " 
Twit-twit-twee  !    twit-twit-twit  ! 

That  was  all  he  would  say. 

*'  Where  is  your  mate  ?  come  answer 
me. 

Little  bird  so  gray  ?  " 
Twit-twit-twit !  twit-twit-twee  ! 

That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  And  has  she  little  rosy  feet  ? 

And  is  her  body  gray  ?  " 
Twit-twit-twee  !  twit-twit-twit  ! 

That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  And   will   she   come   with    you   and 
sit 

In  my  apple-tree  some  day  ?  " 
Twit-twit-twee  !  twit-twit-twit ! 

He  said  as  he  flew  away. 

'•  Twit-twit !  twit-twit  !  twit  !  tweet  !  " 
Why,  what  in  that  should  be 

To  make  it  seem  so  very  sweet  ? 
And  then  it  came  to  me. 

This  little  wilding  of  the  wood, 
With  wing  so  gray  and  fleet, 

Did  just  the  best  for  you  he  could, 
And  that  is  why  't  was  sweet. 
18 


OLD   MAXIMS. 

I  THINK  there  are  some  maxims 

Under  the  sun, 
Scarce  worth  preservation  ; 

But  here,  boys,  is  one 
So  sound  and  so  simple 

'T  is  worth  while  to  know  ; 
And  all  in  the  single  line, 

"  Hoe  your  own  row  !  " 

If  you  want  to  have  riches, 

And  want  to  have  friends, 
Don't  trample  the  means  down 

And  look  for  the  ends  ; 
But  always  remember 

Wherever  you  go, 
The  wisdom  of  practicing, 

"  Hoe  your  own  row  !  " 

Don't  just  sit  and  pray 

For  increase  of  your  store, 
But  work  ;  who  will  help  himself, 

Heaven  helps  more. 
The     weeds     while      you  're     sleep 
ing, 

Will  come  up  and  grow, 
But  if  you  would  have  the 

Full  ear,  you  must  hoe  ! 

Nor  will  it  do  only 

To  hoe  out  the  weeds, 
You    must    make    your    ground    mel 
low 

And  put  in  the  seeds  ; 
And  when  the  young  blade 

Pushes  through,  you  must  know 
There  is  nothing  will  strengthen 

Its  growth  like  the  hoe  ! 

There  's  no  use  of  saying 

What  will  be,  will  be  ; 
Once  try  it,  my  lack-brain, 

And  see  what  you  '11  see  ! 
Why,  just  small  potatoes, 

And  few  in  a  row  ; 
You  'd  better  take  hold  then, 

And  honestly  hoe  ! 

A  good  many  workers 

I  've  known  in  my  time  — 
Some  builders  of  houses, 

Some  builders  of  rhyme  ; 
And  they  that  were  prospered, 

Were  prospered,  I  know, 
By  the  intent  and  meaning  of 

"  Hoe  your  own  row  !  " 


274 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


I  've  known,  too,  a  good  many 

Idlers,  who  said, 
"  I  've  right  to  my  living, 

The  world  owes  me  bread  !  ' 
A  right !  lazy  lubber  ! 

A  thousand  times  No  ! 
'T  is  his,  and  his  only 

Who  hoes  his  own  row. 


PETER  GREY. 

HONEST  little  Peter  Grey 

Keeps  at  work  the  livelong  day, 
For  his  mother  is  as  poor  as  a  mouse  ; 

Now  running  up  and  down 

Doing  errands  in  the  town, 
And  now  doing  chores  about  the  house. 

The  boys  along  the  street 
Often  call  him  Hungry  Pete, 

Because  that  his  face  is  so  pale  ; 
And  ask,  by  way  of  jest, 
If  his  ragged  coat  and  vest 

And  his  old-fashioned  hat  are  for  sale. 

But  little  Peter  Grey 

Never  any  shape  nor  way 
Doth  evil  for  evil  return  ; 

He  is  finer  than  his  clothes, 

And  no  matter  where  he  goes 
There  is  some  one  the  fact  to  discern. 

You  might  think  a  sneer,  mayhap, 
Just  a  feather  in  your  cap, 
If  you   saw  him  being  pushed  to  the 

wall  ; 

Bux  my  proudly-foolish  friend, 
You  might  find  out  in  the  end 
You  had  sneered  at  your  betters,  after 
all. 

He  is  climbing  up  his  way 

On  life's  ladder  day  by  day  ; 
And  you  who,  to  laugh  at  him,  stop 

On  the  lower  rounds,  will  wake, 

If  I  do  not  much  mistake, 
To  find  him  sitting  snug  at  the  top. 


A    SERMON 

FOR    YOUNG    FOLKS. 

DON'T  ever  go  hunting  for  pleasures  — 
They  cannot  be  found  thus  I  know  ; 

Nor  yet  fall  a-digging  for  treasures, 
Unless  with  the  spade  and  the  hoe  ! 


The  bee  has  to  work  for  the  honey, 
The  drone  has  no  right  to  the  food, 

And  he  who  has  not  earned  his  money 
Will  get  out  of  his  money  no  good. 

The    ant   builds    her   house   with    her 
labor, 

The  squirrel  looks  out  for  his  mast, 
And  he  who  depends  on  his  neighbor 

Will  never  have  friends,  first  or  last. 

In  short,  'tis  no  better  than  thieving, 
Though  thief  ~is  a  harsh  name  to  call  ; 

Good  things  to  be  always  receiving, 
And  never  to  give  back  at  all. 

And  do  not  put  off  till  to-morrow 
The  thing  that  you  ought  to  do  now, 

But  first  set  the  share  in  the  furrow, 
And   then    set    your    hand    to    the 
plough. 

The  time  is  too  short  to  be  waiting, 
The  day  maketh  haste  to  the  night, 

And    it 's    just   as    hard   work    to    be 

hating 
Your  work  as  to  do  it  outright. 

Know  this,  too,  before  you  are  older, 
And  all  the  fresh  morning  is  gone, 

Who    puts    to    the   world's    wheel    a 

shoulder 
Is  he  that  will  move  the  world  on  ! 

Don't  weary  out  will  with  delaying, 
And   when  you  are  crowded,  don't 
stop  ; 

Believe  me  there  's  truth  in  the  saying  : 
"  There  always  is  room  at  the  top." 

To   conscience   be   true,   and   to  man 

true, 
Keep  faith,  hope,  and  love,  in  your 

breast, 
And  when  you  have  done  all  vou  can 

do, 
Why,  then  you  may  trust  for  the  rest. 


TELLING   FORTUNES. 

"  Be  not  among  wine-bibbers ;  among  riotous 
eaters  of  flesh  ;  for  the  drunkard  and  the  glutton 
shall  come  to  poverty;  and  drowsiness  shall  clothe 
a  man  with  rags." —  PROV.  xxiii.  20,  21. 

I  'LL  tell   you   two   fortunes,  my   fine 

little  lad, 
For  you  to  accept  or  refuse. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


275 


The  one  of  them  good,  and  the  other 

one  bad  ; 

Now  hear  them,  and  say  which  you 
choose ! 

I  see  by  my  gift,  within  reach  of  your 

hand, 

A  fortune  right  fair  to  behold  ; 
A  house  and  a  hundred  good  acres  of 

land, 
With  harvest  fields  yellow  as  gold. 

I  see  a  great  orchard,  the  boughs  hang 
ing  down 

With  apples  of  russet  and  red  ; 
I  see  droves  of  cattle,  some  white  and 

brown, 
But  all  of  them  sleek  and  well-fed. 

I  see  doves  and   swallows   about   the 

barn  doors, 
See    the    fanning-mill    whirling    so 

fast, 
See  men  that  are  threshing  the  wheat 

on  the  floors  ; 
And  now  the  bright  picture  is  past ! 

And  I  see,  rising   dismally  up  in  the 

place 

Of  the  beautiful  house  and  the  land, 
A    man  with    a  fire-red   nose    on    his 

face, 
And  a  little  brown  jug  in  his  hand  ! 

Oh  !   if  you  beheld  him,  my  lad,  you 

would  wish 

That  he  were  less  wretched  to  see  ; 
For  his  boot-toes,  they  gape  like  the 

mouth  of  a  fish, 
And  his  trousers  are  out  at  the  knee  ! 

In  walking  he  staggers,  now  this  way, 

now  that, 
And  his  eyes  they  stand  out  like  a 

bug's, 
And  he  wears  an  old  coat  and  a  bat- 

tered-in  hat, 

And    I    think   that   the   fault  is  the 
jug's  ! 

For  our  text  says  the   drunkard  shall 

come  to  be  poor, 
And  drowsiness    clothes   men   with 

rags  ; 
And  lie  does  n't  look  much  like  a  man, 

I  am  sure, 

Who   has    honest  hard   cash  in  his 
bags. 


Now   which   will   you   choose  ?   to  be 

thrifty  and  snug, 
And  to  be  right  side  up  with   your 

dish  ; 
Or  to  go  with  your  eyes  like  the  eyes 

of  a  bug, 

And  your  shoes  like  the  mouth  of  a 
fish! 


THE   WISE   FAIRY. 

ONCE,  in  a  rough,  wild  country, 
On  the  other  side  of  the  sea, 

There  lived  a  dear  little  fairy, 
And  her  home  was  in  a  tree. 

A  dear  little,  queer  little  fairy, 
And  as  riqh  as  she  could  be. 

To  northward  and  to  southward, 
She  could  overlook  the  land, 

And  that  was  why  she  had  her  house 
In  a  tree,  you  understand. 

For  she  was  the  friend  of  the  friend 
less, 
And  her  heart  was  in  her  hand. 

And  when  she  saw  poor  women 

Patiently,  day  by  day, 
Spinning,  spinning,  and  spinning 

Their  lonesome  lives  away, 
She  would  hide  in  the  flax  of  their  dis 
taffs 

A  lump  of  gold,  they  say. 

And  when  she  saw  poor  ditchers, 
Knee-deep  in  some  wet  dyke, 

Digging,  digging,  and  digging, 
To  their  very  graves,  belike, 

She  would  hide  a  shining  lump  of  gold 
Where  their  spades  would  be  sure  to 
strike. 

And  when  she  saw  poor  children 
Their  goats  from  the  pastures  take, 

Or  saw  them  milking  and  milking, 
Till  their  arms  were  ready  to  break, 

What    a    plashing    in    their    milking- 

pails 
Her  gifts  of  gold  would  make  ! 

Sometimes  in  the  night,  a  fisher 
Would  hear  her  sweet  low  call, 

And  all  at  once  a  salmon  of  gold 
Right  out  of  his  net  would  fall  ; 

But  what  I  have  to  tell  you 
Is  the  strangest  thing  of  all. 


276 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


If  any  ditcher,  or  fisher. 

Or  child,  or  spinner  old, 
Bought  shoes  for  his  feet,  or  bread  to 
eat, 

Or  a  coat  to  keep  from  the  cold, 
The  gift  of  the  good  old  fairy 

Was  always  trusty  gold. 

But  if  a  ditcher,  or  fisher, 
Or  spinner,  or  child  so  gay, 

Bought  jewels,  or  wine,  or  silks  so  fine, 
Or  staked  his  pleasure  at  play, 

The  fairy's  gold  in  his  very  hold 
Would  turn  to  a  lump  of  clay. 

So,  by  and  by  the  people 
Got  open  their  stupid  eyes  : 

"  We  must  learn  to  spend  to  some  good 

end," 
They  said,  "  if  we  are  wise  ; 

'T  is  not  in  the  gold  we  waste  or  hold, 
That  a  golden  blessing  lies." 


A   CHILD'S   WISDOM. 

WHEN  the  cares  of  day  are  ended, 
And  I  take  my  evening  rest, 

Of  the  windows  of  my  chamber 
This  is  that  I  love  the  best ; 

This  one  facing  to  the  hill-tops 
And  the  orchards  of  the  west. 

All  the  woodlands,  dim  and  dusky, 
All  the  fields  of  waving  grain, 

All  the  valleys  sprinkled  over 
With  the  drops  of  sunlit  rain, 

I  can  see  them  through  the  twilight, 
Sitting  here  beside  my  pane. 

I  can  see  the  hilly  places, 

With  the  sheep-paths  trod  across  ; 
See  the  fountains  by  the  waysides, 

Each  one  in  her  house  of  moss, 
Holding  up  the  mist  above  her 

Like  a  skein  of  silken  floss. 

Garden  corners  bright  with  roses, 
Garden  borders  set  with  mint, 

Garden  beds,  wherein  the  maidens 
Sow  their  seeds,  as  love  doth  hint, 

To  some  rhyme  of  mystic  charming 
That  shall  come  back  all  in  print. 

All  !  with  what  a  world  of  blushes 
Then     they    read    it    through     and 
through, 


Weeding  out  the  tangled  sentence 
From  the  commas  of  the  dew  : 

Little  ladies,  choose  ye  wisely, 
Lest  some  day  the  choice  ye  rue. 

I  can  see  a  troop  of  children, 
Merry-hearted  boys  and  girls, 

Eyes  of  light  and  eyes  of  darkness, 
Feet  of  coral,  legs  of  pearls, 

Racing   toward    the    morning    school- 

house 
Half  a  head  before  their  curls. 

One  from  all  the  rest  I  single, 
Not  for  brighter  mouth  or  eyes, 

Not  ior  being  sweet  and  simple, 
Not  for  being  sage  and  wise  : 

With  my  whole  full  heart  I  loved  him, 
And  therein  my  secret  lies. 

Cheeks   as   brown   as    sun  could  kiss 
them, 

All  in  careless  homespun  dressed, 
Eager  for  the  romp  or  wrestle, 

Just  a  rustic  with  the  rest : 
Who  shall  say  what  love  is  made  of  ? 

'T  is  enough  I  loved  him  best. 

Haply,  Effie  loved  me  better  — 

She  with  arms  so  lily  fair, 
In  her  sadness,  in  her  gladness. 

Stealing  round  me  unaware  ; 
Dusky  shadows  of  the  cairngorms 

All  among  her  golden  hair. 

Haply,  so  did  willful  Annie, 

With  the  tender  eyes  and  mouth, 

And  the  languors  and  the  angers 
Of  her  birth-land  of  the  South  : 

Still  my  darling  was  my  darling  — 
"  I  can  love,"  I  said,  ufor  both.'' 

So  I  left  the  pleasure-places, 
Gayest,  gladdest,  best  of  all  — 

Hedge-row  mazes,  lanes  of  daisies, 
Bluebirds'  twitter,  blackbirds'  call  — 

For  the  robbing  of  the  crow's  nest, 
For  the  games  of  race  and  ball. 

So  I  left  my  book  of  poems 
Lying  in  the  hawthorn's  shade, 

Milky  flowers  sometimes  for  hours 
Drifting  down  the  page  unread. 

"  He  was  found  a  better  poet ; 
I  will  read  with  him,"  I  said. 

Thus  he  led  me,  hither,  thither, 
To  his  young  heart's  wild  content, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


277 


Where  so  surly  and  so  curly, 

With  his  black  horns  round  him  bent, 
Fed  the  ram  that  ruled  the  meadow  — 

For  where'er  he  called  I  went : 

Where  the  old  oak,  black  and  blasted, 
Trembled  on  his  knotty  knees, 

Where  the  nettle  teased  the  cattle, 
Where  the  wild  crab-apple  trees 

Blushed  with  bitter  fruit  to  mock  us  ; 
'T  was  not  I  that  was  to  please  : 

Where  the  ox,  with  horn  for  pushing, 

Chafed  within  his  prison  stall ; 
Where  the  long-leaved  poison-ivy 
Clambered  up  the  broken  wall : 
Ah  !  no  matter,  still  I  loved  him 
First  and  last  and  best  of  all. 

When  before  the  frowning  master 
Late  and  lagging  in  we  came, 

I  would  stand  up  straight  before  him, 
And  would  take  my  even  blame  : 

Ah  !  my  darling  was  my  darling  ; 
Good  or  bad  ~'t  was  all  the  same. 

One   day,   when   the    lowering   storm- 
cloud 

South  and  east  began  to  frown, 
Flat  along  the  waves  of  grasses, 

Like  a  swimmer,  he  lay  down, 
With  his  head  propped  up  and  resting 

On  his  two  arms  strong  and  brown. 

On  the  sloping  ridge  behind  us 

Shone  the  yet  ungarnered  sheaves  ; 

Round  about  us  ran  the  shadows 
Of  the  overhanging  leaves, 

Rustling  in  the  wind  as  softly 
As  a  lady's  silken  sleeves. 

Where  a  sudden  notch  before  us 
Made  a  gateway  in  the  hill, 


And  a  sense  of  desolation 

Seemed  the  very  air  to  fill, 
There  beneath  the  weeping  willows 

Lay  the  grave-yard,  hushed  and  still. 

Pointing  over  to  the  shoulders 

Of  'the  head-stones,  white  and  high, 

Said  I,  in  his  bright  face  looking, 
"  Think  you  you  shall  ever  lie 

In  among  those  weeping  willows  ?  " 
"  No  !  "  he  said,  "  I  cannot  die  !  " 

"  Cannot  die  ?  my  little  darling, 
'T  is  the  way  we  all  must  go  !  " 

Then  the  bold  bright  spirit  in  him 
Setting  all  his  cheek  aglow, 

He  repeated  still  the  answer, 
"  I  shall  never  die,  I  know  !  " 

"Wait    and    think.     On    yonder  hill 
side 

There  are  graves  as  short  as  you. 
Death    is    strong."  — "  But    He    who 

made  Death 

Is  as  strong,  and  stronger  too. 
Death   may  take   me,  God  will   wake 

me, 
And  will  make  me  live  anew." 

Since  we  sat  within  the  elm  shade 
Talking  as  the  storm  came  on, 

Many  a  blessed  hope  has  vanished, 
Many  a  year  has  come  and  gone  ; 

But  that  simple,  sweet  believing 
Is  the  staff  I  lean  upon. 

From  my  arms,  so  closely  clasping, 

Long  ago  my  darling  fled  ; 
Morning   brightness    makes    no   light 
ness 

In  the  darkness  where  I  tread  : 
He  is  lost,  and  I  am  lonely, 

But  I  know  he  is  not  dead. 


PHCEBE  GARY'S  POEMS. 


282 


THE   POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


And  here  you  will  find  on  every  hand 
Walks,    and    fountains,    and    statues 

grand, 
And  trees  from  many  a  foreign  land. 

And  flowers,  that  only  the  learned  can 

name, 
Here  glow  and  burn  like  a  gorgeous 

flame, 
Putting  the  poor  man's  blooms  to 

shame. 

Far  away  from  their  native  air 

The    Norway  pines  their  green  dress 

wear  ; 
And  larches  swing  their  long  loose  hair. 

Near  the  porch  grows  the  broad  catal- 

pa  tree 

And  o'er  it  the  grand  wistaria, 
Born  to  the  purple  of  royalty. 

There  looking  the   same  for  a  weary 

while,— 
'T  was  built  in  this  heavy,  gloomy 

style,  — 
Stands  the  mansion,  a  grand  old  pile. 

Always  closed,  as  it  is  to-day, 
And  the   proud  Squire,  so  the  neigh 
bors  say, 
Frowns  each  unwelcome  guest  away. 

Though  some  who  knew  him  long  ago, 
If  you  ask,  will  shake  their  heads  of 

snow, 
And  tell  you  he  was  not  always  so, 

Though  grave  and  quiet  at  any  time,  — 
But  that  now,  his  head  in  manhood's 

prime, 
Is  growing  white  as  the  winter's  rime. 


THE  GARDENER'S   HOME. 

WELL,  you  have  seen  it  —  a  tempting 
spot  ! 

Now  come  with  me  through  the  or 
chard  plot 

And  down  the  lane  to  the  gardener's 
cot. 

Look  where  it  hides  almost  unseen, 
And   peeps   the   sheltering  vines    be 
tween, 

Like  a  white  flower  out  of  a  bush  of 
green. 


Cosy  as  nest  of  a  bird  inside. 
Here  is  no  room  for  show  or  pride, 
And  the  open  door  swings   free  and 
wide. 

Across  the  well-worn  stepping-stone, 
With  sweet  ground-ivy  half  o'ergrown, 
You  may  pass,  as  if  the   house   were 
your  own. 

You  are  welcome  here  to  come  or  stay, 
For  to  all  the  host  has  enough  to  say ; 
And  the  good-wife  smiles  in  a  pleasant 
way. 

'T  is  a  pretty  place  to  see  in  the  time, 
When  the  vines  in  bloom  o'er  the  rude 

walls  climb, 
And  Nature  laughs  in  her  joyful  prime. 

Bordered  by  roses,  early  and  late, 

A  narrow  graveled  walk  leads  straight 

Up  to  the  door  from  the  rustic  gate. 

Here  the  lilac  flings  her  perfume  wide, 
And  the  sweet-brier,  up  to  the  lattice 

tied, 
Seems  trying  to  push  herself  inside. 

A  little  off  to  the  right,  one  sees 
Some  black  and  sturdy  walnut-trees, 
And  locusts,  whose  white  flowers  scent 
the  breeze. 

And  the  Dovecote  Mill  stands  just  be 
yond, 

With  its  dull  red  walls,  and  the  dron 
ing  sound 

Of  the  slow  wheel,  turning  round  and 
round. 

Here  the  full  creek  rushes  noisily, 
Though  oft  in  summer  it  runs  half  dry, 
And  its  song  is  only  a  lullaby. 

But  the  prettiest  sight  when  all  is  done, 
That  the  eye  or  mind  can  rest  upon, 
Or  in  the  house  or  out  in  the  sun  ;  — 

And  whatever  beside  you   may  have 

met, 

The  picture  you  will  not  soon  forget, — 
Is  little  Bethy,  the  gardener's  pet. 

Ever  his  honest  laughing  eyes 
Beam  with  a  new  and  glad  surprise, 
At  the  wit  of  her  childish,  quaint  re 
plies. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


While  the  mother   seems  with  a  love 

more  deep 

To  guard  her  always,  awake  or  asleep, 
As  one  with  a  sacred  trust  to  keep. 

Here  in  the  square  room,  parlor  and 

hall, 
Stand  the  stiff-backed  chairs   against 

the  wall, 
And  the  clock  in  the  corner,  straight 

and  tall. 

Ranged  on  the  cupboard  shelf  in  sight, 
Glistens  the  china,  snowy  white. 
And   the    spoons    and    platters,    bur 
nished  bright. 

Oft  will  a  bird,  or  a  butterfly  dare 

To   venture   in    through   the   window, 

bare, 
And  opened  wide  for  the  summer  air. 

And  sitting  near  it  you  may  feel 
Faint  scent  of  herbs  from  the  garden 

steal, 
And    catch   the  sound  of  the    miller's 

wheel. 

With  wife  and  child,  and  his  plot  to 

till, 

Here  the  gardener  lives  contented  still, 
Let  the  world  outside  go  on  as  it  will. 


THE   MILL. 

With    cobwebs  and  dust   on  the  win 
dow  spread, 

On  the  walls  and  the  rafters  overhead, 
Rises  the  old  mill,  rusty  red. 

Grim  as  the  man  who  calls  it  his  own, 
Outside,    from    the     gray    foundation 

stone 
To   the   roof  with   spongy  moss  o'er- 

grown. 

Through  a  loop-hole  made  in  the  gable 

high, 

In  and  out  like  arrows  fly 
The  slender  swallows,  swift  and  shy. 

And  with  bosoms  purple,  brown,  and 

white, 
Along    the    eves,    in    the   shimmering 

light. 
Sits   a   row  of   doves    from    morn    till 

night. 


Less  quiet  far  is  the  place  within, 
Where   the   falling  meal   o'erruns  the 

bin, 
And  you  hear  the  busy  stir  and  din. 

Grave  is  the  miller's  mien  and  pace, 
But  his  boy,  with  ruddy,  laughing  face, 
Is  good  to  see  in  this  sombre  place. 

And  little  Bethy  will  say  to  you, 
That  he  is  good  and  brave  and  true, 
And  the  wisest  boy  you  ever  knew  ! 

"  Why  Robert,"  she  says,  "  was  never 

heard 

To  speak  a  cross  or  a  wicked  word, 
And  he  would  n't  injure  even  a  bird  !  " 

And  he,  with  boyish  love  and  pride, 
Ever  since  she  could  walk  by  his  side, 
Has  been  her  playmate  and  her  guide. 

For  he  lived  in  the  world  three  years 

before 

Bethy  her  baby  beauty  wore  ; 
And   is  taller  than  she  by  a  head  or 

more. 

Up  the  plank  and  over  the  sill, 
In  and  out  at  their  childish  will, 
They  played  about  the  old  red  mill. 

They  watched   the   mice  through   the 

corn-sacks  steal, 

The  steady  shower  of  the  snowy  meal, 
And  the  water  falling  over  the  wheel. 

They  loved  to  stray  in  the  garden  walks, 

Bordered  by  stately  hollyhocks 

And  pinks  and  odorous  marigold  stalks. 

Where  lilies  and  tulips  stood  in  line 
By  the  candytuft  and  the  columbine, 
And  lady-grass,  like  a  ribbon  fine. 

Where   the   daffodil  wore   her  golden 

lace, 
And  the  prince's-feather  blushed  in  the 

face, 
And  the  cockscomb  looked  as  vain  as 

his  race. 

And  here,  as  gay  as  the  birds  in  the 

bowers, 
Our  children  lived  through  their  life's 

first  hours, 
And   grew  till  their   heads   o'ertopped 

the  flowers. 


284 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


SUGAR-MAKING. 


Swiftly  onward  the  seasons  flew, 
And  enough  to  see  and  enough  to  do 
Our    children    found    the     long    year 
through. 

They  played  in  the  hay  when  the  fields 

were  mowed, 
With    the    sun-burnt    harvesters   they 

rode 
Home  to  the  barn  a-top  of  the  load, 

When  her  fragrant  fruit  the  orchard 

shed, 

They  helped  to  gather  the  apples  spread 
On  the  soft  grass  —  yellow,  russet,  and 

red. 

Down  hill  in  winter  they  used  to  slide, 
And  over  the  frozen  mill-creek  glide, 
Or  play  by  the  great  bright  fire  inside 

The    house  ;    or    sit   in   the   chimney 

nook, 

Pleased  for  the  hundredth  time  to  look 
Over  the  self-same  picture-book. 

Castles,  and  men  of  snow  they  made, 
And  fed  with  crumbs  the  robins,  that 

stayed 
Near  the  house  —  half  tame,  and  half 

afraid. 

So  ever  the  winter-time  flew  fast, 
And  after  the  cold  short  months  were 

past 
Came  the  sugar-making  on  at  last. 

'Twas  just  ere  the  old   folks  used  to 

say, 

"  Now  the  oaks  are  turning  gray, 
'T  is  time  for  the  farmer  to  plant  away  !  " 

Before  the  early  bluebird  was  there  ; 
Or  down  by  the  brook  the  willow  fair 
Loosed  to  the  winds  her  yellow  hair. 

Ah  !  then  there  was  life  and  fun  enough, 
In  making  the  "spile  "  and  setting  the 

trough, 
And  all,  till  the  time  of  the  "  stirring 

off." 

They  followed  the  sturdy  hired  man, 
With    his    brawny    arms    and    face    of 
tan, 


Who  gathered  the  sap  each  day  as  it 
ran, 

And  they  thought  it  a  very  funny  sight, 
The  yoke  that  he  wore,  like  "  Buck  and 

Bright," 
Across  his  shoulders,  broad,  upright. 

They  watched  the  fires,  with  awe  pro 
found, 

Go  lapping  the  great  black  kettles 
round, 

And  out  the  chimney,  with  rushing 
sound. 

They  loved  the  noise  of  the  brook,  that 

slid 

Swift  under  its  icy,  broken  lid, 
And    they   knew"  where   that  delicate 

flower  was  hid, 

That  first  in  March  her  head  upheaves  ; 
And  they  found  the  tender  "adam-and- 

eves  " 
Beneath  their  bower  of  glossy  leaves. 

They  gathered  spice-wood  and  ginseng 

roots, 
And  the   boy   could   fashion  whistles 

and  flutes 
Out  of  the  paw-pan  and  walnut  shoots. 

So  every  season  its  pleasure  found  ; 

Though  the  children  never  strayed  be 
yond 

The  dear  old  hills  that  hemmed  them 
round. 


THE   PLAYMATES. 

Behind    the     cottage    the     mill-creek 

flowed, 
And  before  it,  white  and  winding, 

showed 
The  narrow  track  of  the  winter  road, 

The  creek  when  low,  showed  a  sandy 

floor, 

And  many  a  green  old  sycamore 
Threw  its  shade  in  summer  from  shore 

to  shore. 

And  just  a  quiet  country  lane, 
Fringed  close   by  fields  of  grass  and 

grain, 
Was  the  crooked  road  that  crossed  the 

plain. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


285 


Out  of  the  fragrant  fennel's  bed 

On    its    bank,   the    purple    iron-weed 

spread 
Her  broad  top  over  the  mullein's  head. 

Off  through  the  straggling  town  it 
wound, 

Then  led  you  down  to  beech-wood 
pond, 

And  up  to  the  school-house,  just  be 
yond. 

Not  far  away  was  a  wood's  deep  shade 
Where,  larger  grown,  the  boy  and  maid, 
Searching     for     flowers    and     berries, 
strayed, 

And    oft     they    went    the    field-paths 

..     through, 

Where  all  the  things  she  liked  he  knew, 
And  the  very  places  where  they  grew. 

The  hidden  nook  where  Nature  set 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet, 

And  the  mountain-fringe  in  hollows  wet. 

The  solomon's-seal,  of  gold  so  fine, 
And   the    king-cup,    holding   its    dewy 

wine 
Up  to  the  crowned  dandelion. 

He  gathered  the  ripe  nuts  in  the  fall, 
And   berries    that  grew  by  fence  and 

wall 
So  high  she  could  not  reach  them  at  all. 

The  fruit  of  the  hawthorn,  black  and 
red, 

Wild  grapes,  and  the  hip  that  came  in 
stead, 

Of  the  sweet  wild  roses,  faded  and  dead. 

Then  the  curious  ways  of  birds  he  knew, 
And    where     they    lived    the     season 

through, 
And  how  they  built,  and  sang,  and  flew. 

Sometimes     the    boughs    he     bended 

down, 
And  Bethy  counted  with  eyes  that 

shone, 
Eggs,  white  and  speckled,  blue  and 

brown. 

And  oft  they  watched  with  wondering 

eye 

The  swallows,  up  on  the  rafters  high 
Teaching  their  timid  young  to  fly. 


For  many  a  dull  and  rainy  day 
They  wiled  the  hours  till  night  away 
Up  in  the  mow  on  the  scented  hay. 

And    many   a   dress    was    soiled    and 

torn 

In  climbing  about  the  dusty  barn 
And  up  to  the  lofts  of  wheat  and  corn. 

For  they  loved  to  hear  on  the  roof,  the 

rain, 

And  to  count  the  bins,  again  and  again, 
Heaped  with  their  treasures  of  golden 

grain. 

They  played  with  the  maize's  sword- 
like  leaves, 

And  tossed  the  rye  and  the  oaten 
sheaves, 

In  autumn  piled  to  the  very  eaves. 

They  peeped  in  the  stalls  where  the  cat 
tle  fed, 

They  fixed  their  swing  to  the  beam 
o'erhead,  — 

Turned  the  wind-mill,  huge,  and  round,, 
and  red. 

And  the  treasure  of  treasures,  the  pet 

and  toy, 

The  source  alike  of  his  care  and  joy, 
Was  the  timid  girl  to  the  brave  bright 

boy. 

When  they  went  to  school,  her  hand  he 

took, 
Lead  her,  and  helped  her  over  stile  and 

brook, 
And  carried  her  basket,  slate,  and  book. 

And  he  was  a  scholar,  if  Bethy  said 

true, 
The  hardest  book  he  could  read  right 

through, 
And    there  was  n't  a    "  sum  "    that  he 

could  n't  "  do  !  " 

Oh,  youth,  whatever  we  lose  or  se 
cure, 

One  good  we  can  all  keep  safe  and 
sure, 

Who  remember  a  childhood,  happy  and 
pure  ! 

And  hard  indeed  must  a  man  be  made, 
By  the  toil  and  traffic  of  gain  and  trade, 
Who  loves  not  the  spot  where  a  boy  he 
played. 


286 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  I  pity  that  woman,  or  grave  or  gay, 
Who  keeps  not  fresh  in  her  heart  alway 
The  tender  dreams  of  her  life's  young 
day! 


THE   SCHOOL. 

Swiftly  the  seasons  sped  away, 

And  soon  to  our  children  came  the  day 

When  their  life  had  work  as  well  as 

play- 
When  they  trudged  each  morn  to  the 

school-house  set 

Where  the  winter  road  and  the  high 
way  met  — 
Ah  !  how  plainly  I  see  it  yet  ! 

With  its  noisy  play-ground   trampled 

so 

By  the  quick  feet,  running  to  and  fro, 
That  not  a  blade  of  grass  could  grow. 

And  the  maple-grove  across  the  road, 
The    hollow   where    the    cool    spring 

flowed, 
And    greenly   the   mint   and    calamus 

showed. 

And    the    house  —  unpainted,    dingy, 

low, 

Shielded  a  little  from  sun  and  snow, 
By  its  three  stiff  locusts,  in  a  row. 

I  can  see  the  floor,  all  dusty  and  bare, 
The  benches  hacked,  the  drawings  rare 
On  the  walls,  and  the  master's  desk  and 
chair : 

And  himself,  not  withered,  cross,  and 

grim, 
But  a  youth,  well-favored,  shy,  and 

slim  ; 
More  awed  by  the  girls  than  they  by 

him. 

With  a  poet's  eye  and  a  lover's  voice, 
Unused  to  the  ways  of  rustic  boys, 
And   shrinking   from  all  rude   speech 
and  noise. 

Where  is  he  ?     Where  should  we  find 

again 
The  children  who  played  together 

there  ? 
If  alive,   sad   women   and   thoughtful 

men: 


Where  now  is  Eleanor  proud  and  fine  ? 
And  where  is  dark-eyed  Angivine, 
Rebecca,  Annie,  and  Caroline  ? 

And  timid  Lucy  with  pale  gold  hair, 
And  soft  brown  eyes  that  unaware 
Drew  your  heart   to  her,  and   held  it 
there  ? 

There  was  blushing  Rose,  the  beauty 

and  pride 

Of  her  home,  and  all  the  country  side  ; 
She  was  the  first  we  loved  who  died. 

And   the  joy  and   pride   of  our  life's 

young  years, 
The   one  we  loved  without  doubts  or 

fears, 
Alas  !  to-day  he  is  named  with  tears. 

And  Alice,  with  quiet,  thoughtful  way 
Yet  joining  always  in  fun  and  play, 
God  knows  she  is  changed  enough  to 
day ! 

I  think  of  the  boy  no  father  claimed, 
Of  him,   a  fall   from   the   swing    had 

lamed, 
And  the  girl  whose  hand  in  the   mill 

was  maimed. 

And  the  lad  too  sick  and  sad  to  play, 
Who  ceased   to  come   to   school   one 

day, 
And  on  the  next  he  had  passed  away. 

And    I    know    the    look    the    master 

wore 
When  he  told  us  our  mate  of  the  clay 

before 
Would  never  be  with  us  any  more  ! 

And   how  on  a  grassy  slope   he  was 

laid  — 
We  could  see  the  place  from  where  we 

played  — 
A  sight  to  make  young  hearts  afraid. 

Sometimes  we  went  by  two  and  three, 
And  read  on  his  tombstone  thought 
fully, 
"  As  I  am  now  so  you  must  be." 

Brothers  with  brothers  fighting,  slain, 
From  out  those  school-boys  some  have 

lain 

Their  bones  to  bleach  on  the  battle- 
plain. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


287 


Some   have  wandered  o'er  lands  and 

seas, 

Some  haply  sit  in  families, 
With  children's  children  on  their  knees. 

Some  may  have  gone  in  sin  astray, 
Many  asleep  by  their  kindred  lay, 
Dust  to  dust,  till  the  judgment  day  ! 


YOUTH    AND   MAIDEN. 

A  half  score  years  have  sped  away 
Since  Robert  and  Bethy  used  to  play 
About  the  yard  and  the  mill,  all  day. 

For  time  must  go,  whatever  we  do  ; 
And  the  boy  as  it  went,  to  manhood 

grew, 
Steady  and  honest,  good  and  true. 

Going  on  with  the  mill,  when  his  father 

died; 

He  lived  untempted  there,  untried, 
Knowing  little  of  life  beside. 

Striving  not  to  be  rich  or  great, 
Never  questioning  fortune  or  fate, 
Contented  slowly  to  earn,  and  wait. 

Doing  the  work  that  was  near  his  hand, 
Still  of  Bethy  he  thought  and  planned, 
To  him  the  flower  of  all  the  land. 

And  tall  shy  Bethy  more  quiet  seems, 
With   a  tenderer    light    her  soft   eye 

beams, 
And   her   thoughts   are   vague   as  the 

dream  of  dreams. 

Oft  she  sings  in  an  undertone 
Of  fears  and  sorrows  not  her  own,  — 
The  pains   that  love-lorn    maids  have 
known. 

Does   she  think  as  she  breathes   the 

tender  sigh, 
Of  the   lover  that's   coming,  by  and 

by? 
If  she  will  not  tell  you,  how  should  I  ? 

And  when  she   walks  in  the  evening 

bland 

Over  the  rich  Squire's  pleasant  land, 
Does  she  long  to  be  a  lady,  grand, 

And  to  have  her  fingers,  soft  and  white, 
Lie  in  her  lap,  with  jewels  bright, 


And  with  never  a  task  from  morn  till 
night  ? 

Often,  walking  about  the  place, 

With  bended  head  and  thoughtful  face, 

She  meets  the  owner  face  to  face. 

Sometimes  he  eyes  her  wistfully, 
As  blushing  with  rustic  modesty, 
She  drops  him  a  pretty  courtesy, 

And  looks  as  if  inclined  to  say 
Some  friendly  word  to  bid  her  stay, 
Then,  silent,  turns  abrupt  away. 

And  though  to  speak  she  never  dares, 
She  is  sad  to  think  that  no  one  cares 
For  the   lonely   man,  with   thin  gray 
hairs. 

The  good-wife,  just   as   the   girl   was 

grown, 

Went  from  the  places  she  had  known, 
And  the  gardener  and  Bethy  live  alone. 


THE    COUNTRY    GRAVE-YARD. 

So  she  goes  sometimes  past  Dovecote 

Mill, 
To  the  place  of  humble  graves  on  the 

hill, 
Where  the  mother  rests  in  the  shadows 

still. 

Here,    sleeping  well    as   the  sons   of 

fame, 

Lie  youth  and  maiden,  sire  and  dame, 
With  never  a  record  but  their  name. 

And  some,  their  very  names  forgot, 
Not  even  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 
Yet  sleep  in  peace  ;  so  it  matters  not ! 

Hefe  lieth  one,  who  shouldered  his 
gun, 

When  the  news  was  brought  from  Lex 
ington  ; 

And  laid  it  down,  when  peace  was 
won. 

Still  he  wore  his  coat  of  "  army  blue," 
Silver  buckles  on  knee  and  shoe, 
And  sometimes  even  his  good  sword, 
too. 

For  however  the  world  might  change 
or  gaze, 


288 


THE  POEMS  OF  PfKEBE   CARY. 


He  kept  his  ancient  dress  and  ways, 
Nor   learned    the   fashion    of    modern 
days. 

But  here  he  had  laid  aside  his  staff, 
And  you  read  half-worn,  and  guessed 

it  half 
His  quaint  and  self-made  epitaph,  — 

"  Stoop  down,  my  friends,  and  view  his 

dust 

Who  turned  out  one  among  the  first 
To  secure  the  rights  you  hold  in  trust. 

"  Support  the  Constitution,  plain  ! 
By  being  united  we  form  the  chain 
That  binds  the  tyrant  o'er  the  main  !  " 

Here  from  the  good  dead  shut  away 
By  a  dismal  paling,  broken  and  gray, 
Down  in  the  lonesomest  corner  lay, 

A  baby,  dead  in  its  life's  first  spring, 
And  its  hapless  mother,  a  fair  sad  thing. 
Who  never  wore  a  wedding  ring  ! 

Often  the  maiden's  steps  are  led 

Away  to  a  lonely,  grassy  bed, 

With  a  marble  headstone  at  its  head  : 

And  carved  there  for  memorial, 
Half  hid  by  the  willow  branches'  fall, 
The  one  word,  "  Mercy,"  that  is  all. 

Whether  her  life  had  praise  or  blame, 
All  that  was  told  was  just  the  same, 
She  was  a  woman,  this  her  name. 

What  beside  there  was  naught  to  show, 
Though  always  Bethy  longed  to  know 
The  story  of  her  who  slept  below. 

What  had  she  been  ere  she  joined  the 

dead  ;  — 
Was  she  bowed  with  years,  or  young 

instead  ; 
Was  she  a  maiden,  or  was  she  wed  ? 

Never  another  footstep  here 

But  the  maiden's  seemed    to  come  a- 

near, 
Yet  flowers  were  blooming  from  year 

to  year. 

Something,  whether  of  good  or  harm, 
Down  to  the  dead  one,  like  a  charm 
Drew    the     living     heart,    fresh    and 
warm  ; 


Yet  haunts   more   cheerful  our  Bethy 

had, 
For   youth    loves    not  the    things  that 

are  sad, 
But  turns  to  the  hopeful  and  the  glad. 

Though  somehow  she  has  grown  more 

shy, 

More  silent  than  in  days  gone  by, 
Whenever    the    tall    young    miller    is 

nigh. 

As    they    walk    together,    grave    and 

slow, 

No  longer  hand  in  hand  they  go  : 
Who  can  tell  what  has  changed  them 

so  ? 

Till   the    sea   shall   cease  to  kiss  the 

shore, 
Till  men  and  maidens  shall  be  no 

more, 
'T  is  the  same  old  story,  o'er  and 

o'er. 

Secret  hoping,  and  secret  fears, 
Blushing  and  sighing,  smiles  and  tears, 
The  charm  and  trie  glory  of  life's  young 
years  ! 


WOOING. 

Now  in  the  waning  autumn  days 
The  dull  red  sun,  with  lurid  blaze, 
Shines    through    the   soft   and    smoky 
haze. 

Fallen  across  the  garden  bed, 
Many  a  flower  that  reared  its  head 
Proudly  in  summer,  lies  stiff  and  dead. 

The  pinks   and  roses  have  ceased  to 

blow, 
The  foxgloves   stand  in  a  long  black 

row, 
And  the  daffodils  perished  long  ago. 

Now  the  poplar  rears  his  yellow  spire, 
The  maple  lights  his  funeral  pyre, 
And  the  dog-wood  burns  like  a  bush  of 
fire. 

The  harvest  fields  are  bare  again, 
The  barns  are  filled  to  the  full  with 

grain 
And  the  orchard   trees   of   their   load 

complain. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


289 


Huge  sacks  of  corn  o'er  the  floor  are 

strewn, 

And  Dovecote  Mill  grinds  on  and  on, 
And   the   miller's   work    seems   never 

done. 

But   now   'tis   the    Sabbath   eve,  and 

still 

For  a  little  while  is  the  noisy  mill, 
And  Robert  is  free  to  go  where  he  will. 

But  think  or  do  whatever  he  may, 
The  face  of  Bethy  he  sees  alway 
Just  as  she  looked  in  the  choir  to-day. 

And  as  his  thoughts  the  picture  paint, 
The  hope  within  his  heart  grows  faint, 
As  it  might  before  a  passionless  saint. 

Looking   away   from  the  book  on  her 

knees, 

Pretty  Bethy  at  sunset  sees, 
Some  one  under  the  sycamore  trees, 

Walking  and  musing  slow,  apart ;  — 
But  why  should  the  blood  with  sudden 

start, 
Leap   to   her   cheek  from  her  foolish 

heart  ? 

Oh.  if  he  came  now,  and  if  he  spake, 
What   answer   should   she,   could    she 

make  ? 
This  was  the  way  her  thought  would 

take. 

Now,  troubled  maid  on  the  cottage  sill, 
Be  wise,  and  keep  your  pulses  still, 
He  has  turned,  he   is  coming  up  the 
hill! 

How  he  spake,  or  she  made  reply, 
How  she  came  on  his  breast  to  lie, 
She  could  not  tell  you,  better  than  I. 

But  when  the  stars   came  out  in  the 

skies 
He    has   told    his    love,    in   whispered 

sighs, 
And  she  has  answered,  with  downcast 

eyes. 

For  somehow,  since  the  world  went 
round, 

For  men  who  are  simple,  or  men  pro 
found, 

Hath  a  time  and  a  way  to  woo  been 
found. 


And  maids,  for  a  thousand,  thousand 

years, 

With  trusting  hopes,  or  trembling  fears 
Have     answered     blushing      through 

smiles  and  tears. 

And  why  should  these  two  lovers  have 

more 

Of  thoughtless  folly  or  wisdom's  lore 
Than  all  the  world  who  have  lived  be 
fore  ? 

Nay,  she  gives  her   hand  to  him  who 

won 
Her  heart,  and  she  says,  when  this  is 

done, 
There  is  no  other  under  the  sun 

Could  be  to  her  what  he  hath  been ; 

For  he  to  her  girlish  fancy  then 

Was  the  only  man  in  the  world  of  men. 

She   is   ready   to   take   his   hand   and 

name, 
For    better    or    worse,   for    honor  or 

blame  ;  — 
God  grant  it  may  alway  be  the  same. 


PLIGHTED. 


Oh,  the   tender  joy  of  those    autumn 

hours, 
When   fancy  clothed  with   spring   the 

bowers, 
And  the   dead   leaves   under   the  feet 

seemed  flowers  ! 

Oh,  the  blessed,  blessed  days  of  youth, 
When   the  heart  is  filled  with  gentle 

ruth, 
And  lovers  take  their  dreams  for  truth. 

Oh,  the  hopes  they  had,  and  the  plans 

they  planned, 
The   man   and   the    maid,  as  hand  in 

hand, 
They  walked  in  a  fair,  enchanted  land  ! 

Marred  with  no  jealousy,  fear,  or  doubt, 
At  worst,  but  a  little  pet  or  pout, 
Just  for  the  "  making  up,"  no  doubt ! 

Have    I    said   how   looked    our  wood 

nymph,  wild  ? 
And    how   in    these    days  she   always 

smiled, 
Guileless  and  glad  as  a  little  child  ? 


290 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE    GARY. 


Her  voice  had  a  tender  pleading  tone, 
She  was  just  a  rose-bud,  almost  grown 
And  before  its  leaves  are  fully  blown. 

Graceful  and  tall  as  a  lily  fair, 

The    peach    lent    the    bloom    to    her 

blushes  rare, 

And  the  thrush  the  brown  of  her  rip 
pling  hair. 

Colored    with    violet,    blue    were    her 

eyes, 

Stolen  from  the  breeze  her  gentle  sighs, 
And  her  soul  was  borrowed  from  the 

skies. 

And  you,  if  a  man,  could  hardly  fail, 
If  you    saw    her    tripping    down    the 

dale, 
To  think  her  a  Princess  of  fairy  tale  ; 

Doomed  for  a  time  by  charm  or  spell, 
Deep  in  some  lonely,  haunted  dell, 
With  mischief- loving  elves  to  dwell. 

Or  bound  for  a  season,  body  and  soul, 
Underneath  a  great  green  knoll, 
To  live  alone  with  a  wicked  Troll. 

You   would   have   feared   her  form  so 

slight 

Would  vanish  into  the  air  or  light, 
Or    sudden,    sink   in   the    earth    from 

sight. 

And  you  must  have  looked,  and  longed 

to  see 
The  handsome  Prince  who  should  set 

her  free 
Come  riding  his  good  steed  gallantly. 

Just  as  fair  as  the  good  year's  prime, 
To  our  lovers  was  the  cold  and  rime, 
For  their  bright  lives  had   no  winter 
time. 

The  drifts  might   pile,  and  the  winds 

might  blow, 
Still,  up  from  the  mill  to  the  cottage, 

low, 
There  was  a  straight  path  cut  through 

the  snow. 

And  it  only  added  another  charm 

To   the   cheerful    hearth,   secure    and 

warm, 
To   hear  on   the   roof  and   pane,  the 

storm. 


Sometimes  Bethy  would  lightly  say, 
Partly  in  earnest,  partly  in  play,  — 
"  I    wish    it    would    never    again    be 
May  !  " 

And  he  would   answer,   half  pleased, 

half  tried. 

As  he  drew  her  nearer  to  his  side, 
*'  Nay,  nay,  for  in  spring  I  shall  have 

my  bride." 

And  she  'd  cry  in  a  pretty  childish  pet, 
"Ah  !  then  you  must  have  whom  you 

can  get ; 
I  shall  not  marry  for  ages  yet." 

Then  gravely  he  'd  shake  his  head  at 

this  : 

But  things  went  never  so  far  amiss 
They  were  not  righted  at  last  by  a  kiss. 

And  so  the  seasons  sped   merry  and 

fast, 
And   the    budding    spring-time    came, 

and  passed, 
And  the  wedding  day  was  set  at  last 

With  never  a  quarrel,  scarce  a  fear, 
Each  to  the  other  growing  more  dear, 
They  kept  their  wooing  a  whole  sweet 
year. 


WEDDED. 

In  the  village  church  where  a  child  she 

was  led, 
Where  a  maiden  she  sang  in  the  choir 

o'erhead, 
There  were  Bethy  and  Robert  wed. 

Strong,  yet  tender  and  good  looked  he, 
As  he  took  her  almost  reverently, 
And  she  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see. 

And  men  and  women,  far  and  wide, 
Came  from  village  and  country  side 
To    wish    them  joy   and    to  greet  the 
bride. 

The  friends  who  knew  them  since  they 

were  born, 

Eacli  with  his  best  and  bravest  worn 
Did  honor  to  them  on  their  marriage 

morn. 

But  one  at  the  church  was  heard  to 
say: 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


291 


"  The  Squire,  whom  none  has  seen  to 
day, 
Might  have  given  the  bride  away, 

"Yet   his   is   a  face    't  were    best   to 

miss  ; 
And  what  could  he  do  at  a  time  like 

this, 
But  be  a  cloud  on  its  happiness  ? 

"  So  let  him  stay  with  his  gloom  and 

pride, 

For  he  is  not  fit  to  sit  beside 
The   wedding  guests,  or   to  kiss   the 

bride." 

But    Bethy,   her   heart   was   soft    you 

know, 
To  herself,  as  she  heard  it,  whispered 

low, 
"  Who  knows  what  sorrow  has  made 

him  so?" 

And  looking  away  towards  the  gloomy 

hall, 
And  then  at  the  bridegroom  fine  and 

tall, 
She  said,  "  I  wish  he  had  come  for 

all  !  " 

Home   through    the  green  and  shady 

lane, 

The  way  their  childish  feet  had  ta'en, 
They  came  as  man  and  wife  again. 

Just  to  the  low  old  cottage  here, 
Among  the  friends  and  places  dear 
(For  the  gardener  was  not  dead  a  year). 

And  why,  as  the  great  do,  should  they 

range  ? 

They  needs  must  find  enough  of  change, 
They  are  come  to  a  world  that  is  new 

and  strange. 

Lovingly  eventide  comes  on, 

The   feast   is   eaten,    the   friends    are 

gone, 
And  wife  and  husband  are  left  alone. 

In  kindly  parting  they  have  prest 
The  hand  of  every  lingering  guest, 
And   now  they  shut  us    out  with    the 
rest. 

Oh,  joy  too  sacred  to  look  upon, 
The  very  angels  may  leave  alone, 
Two  happy  souls  by  love  made  one  ! 


But  whatever   they  gain    or  whatever 

they  miss, 
The  poor  have  no  time  in  a  world  like 

this, 
To  waste  in  sorrow  or  happiness. 

For  men  who  have  their  bread  to  earn 
Must  plant  and  gather  and  grind  the 

corn, 
And    the   miller  goes  to   the   mill   at 

morn. 

He  blushes  a  little,  it  may  be, 
As  with  jokes  about  his  family 
The  rough  hands  tease  him  merrily. 

But  lightly,  gayly,  as  he  replies, 
A  braver, 'prouder  light  in  his  eyes 
Shows  that  he  loves  and  can  guard  his 
prize. 

And  the  voice  o'er  the  roar  of  the  mill- 
wheel  heard, 

In  the  house  is  as  soft  in  every  word, 
As  if  the  wife  were  some  timid  bird  ; 

And  he  strokes  her  hair  as  we  handle 

such 
Dear   things    that  we   love   to   pet  so 

much, 
And  yet  are  half  afraid  to  touch. 

And  Bethy,  pretty,  young,  and  gay, 
Trying  the  strange  new  matron  way, 
Seems  to  "  make  believe,"  like  a  child 
at  play, 

In  and  out  the  whole  day  long, 

At  work  in  the  house,  or  her  flowers 

among, 
You  scarce  can  hear  the  birds  for  her 

song. 

Though  many  times  does  she  steal,  I 
ween, 

A  glance  at  the  mill,  the  blinds  be 
tween, 

Blushing,  and  careful  not  to  be  seen. 

But  busy  with  sewing,  broom,  or  meal, 
Swiftly  away  the  moments  steal, 
And  she  hears  the  last  slow  turn  of  the 
wheel. 

And  the  miller  glad,  but  tired  and  slow, 
Comes,  looking  white  as  the   man  of 

snow 
They  made  in  the  winter,  long  ago. 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Oft  the  cottage  door  is  opened  wide, 
Before  his  hand  the  latch  has  tried, 
By  the  eager  wife  who  waits  inside. 

Though  sometimes  out  from  a  hiding- 
place, 

She  slyly  peeps,  when  he  comes,  to 
trace 

The  puzzled  wonder  of  his  face. 

And  she  loves  to  see  the  glad  sur 
prise, 

That,  when  from  her  secret  nook  she 
flies, 

Shines  in  his  happy,  laughing  eyes. 

And  he,  before  from  his  hand  she  slips, 
Leaves  the  mark  on  her  waist  of  finger 

tips, 
And  powders  her  pretty  face  and  lips. 


THE   BABY. 

O'er  the  miller's  cottage  the  seasons 

glide, 

And  at  the  next  year's  Christmas-tide 
We  see  her  a  mother,  we  saw  a  bride. 

All  in  the   spring  was  the  brown  flax 

spun, 
All  in  the  summer  it  bleached  in  the 

sun  ; 
In  the  autumn  days  was  the  sewing 

clone. 

And  just  when  the  Babe  was  born  of 

old, 

Close  wrapped  in  many  a  dainty  fold, 
She  gave  the  mother  her  babe  to  hold. 

Ah,  sweetly  the  maiden's  ditties  rung, 
And    sweet   was   the  song  the  young 

wife  sung  ; 
But  never  trembled  yet  on  her  tongue, 

Such  tender  notes  as  the  lullabies, 
That  now  beside  the  cradle  rise 
Where  softly  sleeping  the  baby  lies. 

And  the  child  has  made  the  father  grow 
Prouder,  as  all  who  see  may  know, 
Than  he  was  of  his  bride,  a  year  ago. 

He  kinder  too  has  grown  to  all, 
And  oft  as  the  gloomy  shadows  fall, 
He  speaks  of  the   Squire  in   his  lonely 
hall. 


And  Bethy,  even  more  tender  grown, 
Says,  almost  with  tears  in  her  tone, 
How   he  's  growing  old  in   his    home 
alone. 

For  now,  that  her  life  is  so  bright  and 

fair, 
She  thinks  of  all   men  with  griefs  to 

bear  ; 
And  of  sorrowful  women  everywhere, 

Who  sit  with  empty  hands  to  hold, 
And  weep  for  babies  dead  and  cold, — 
And  of    such  as   never  had  babes  to 
hold. 

So  the  miller  and  wife  live  on  in  their 

cot 
Untroubled,   content   with    what   they 

have  got  ;  — 
Hath  the  whole  wide  world  a  happier 

lot? 

And  the  neighbors  all  about  declare, 
That  never  a  better,  handsomer  pair, 
Are  seen  at  market,  church,  or  fair. 

So  free  from  envy,  pride,  or  guile, 
They  keep  their  rustic  simple  style, 
And  bask  in  fortune's  kindliest  smile. 

Though  time  and  tide  must  go  as  they 

will, 

And  change  must  even  cross  the  sill 
Of  the  happy  Miller  of  Dovecote  Mill. 


THE   FATHER. 

Hushed  is  the  even-song  of  the  bird, 
Naught  but  the  katydid  is  heard, 
And  the  sound  of  leaves  by  the  night 
wind  stirred. 

Swarms  of  fireflies  rise  and  shine 
Out  of  the  green  grass,  short  and  fine, 
Where,  dotting  the  meadows,  sleep  the 
kine. 

And  the  bees,  done  flying  to  and  fro, 
In  the  fields  of  buckwheat,  white  as 

snow, 
Cling  to  the  hive,  in  a  long  black  row. 

Closed  are  the  pink  and  the  poppy  red, 
And  the  lily  near  them  hangs  her  head, 
And  the  camomile  sleeps  on  the  garden 
bed. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


293 


The  wheel  is  still  that  has  turned  all 

day, 
And    the    mill    stream    runs   unvexed 

away, 
Under  the  thin  mist,  cool  and  gray, 

And  the  little  vine-clad  home  in   the 

dell 

With  this  quiet  beauty  suiteth  well, 
For  it  seems  a  place  where  peace  should 

dwell. 

And  sitting  to-night  on  the  cottage  sill 
Is  the  wife  of  the  Miller  of  Dovecote 

Mill,  - 
Quiet  Bethy,  thoughtful  and  still. 

As  she  hears  the  cricket  chirping  low, 
And  the  pendulum  swinging  to  and  fro, 
And  the  child  in  the  cradle,  breathing 
slow  ; 

Are  her  thoughts  with  her  baby,  fast 

asleep, 

Or  do  they  wander  away,  and  keep 
With  him  she  waits  for  as  night  grows 

deep  ? 

Or  are  they  back  to  the  days  gone  by, 
When  free  as  the  birds  that  swing  and 

fly, 

She  lived  with  never  a  care  or  tie  ? 

Ah  !  who  of  us  all  has  ever  known 
The   hidden   thought  and   the   under 
tone 
Of  the  bosom  nearest  to  our  own  ! 

For  the  one  we  deemed  devoid  of  art 
May   have    lain    and  dreamed  on  our 

trusting  heart 
The  dreams  in  which  we  had  no  part  ! 

And  Bethy,  the  honest  miller's  wife, 
Whom  he  loves  as  he  loves  his  very 

life, 
May  be  with  him  and  herself  at  strife. 

For  she  was  only  a  child  that  day, 
When  she  gave  her  hand  in  the  church 

away, 
And  the  friends  who  loved  her  used  to 

say,— 

(For  you  know  she  was  the  country's 

pride,) 

If  she  ever  had  had  a  suitor  beside 
She  might  not  be  such  a  willing  bride  ! 


Though  never  one  would  hint  but  he 
Was   as   true   and   good   and   fair   as 

she, 
They  wondered   still   that   the   match 

should  be, 

And  said,  were  she  like  a  lady  drest, 
There  was  not  a  fairer,  east  noV  west ;  — 
And  yet  it  might  be  all  for  the  best  ! 

So  who  can  guess  her  thoughts  as  her 

sight 
Rests   on   the    road-track,  dusty   and 

white, 
The  way  the  miller  must  come  to-night ! 


Up  in  his  gloomy  house  on  the  hill, 
He    lies   in   his   chamber,    white   and 

still, — 
The  Squire,  who  owns  the   Dovecote 

Mill. 

What  hath  the  rich  man  been  in  his 

day? 

"  Hard  and  cruel  and  stern,  alway  ;  "  - 
This  is  the  thing  his  neighbors  say, 

"  Silent    and    grim   as    a   man    could 

be;" 

But  the  miller's  wife,  says,  tenderly, 
"  He  has  always  a  smile  for  the  babe 

and  me." 

But   whatever  he  was,   in   days   gone 

by, 

Let  us  stand  in  his  presence  reverently, 
For  to  him  the  great  change  draweth 
nigh. 

There  the  light  is  dim,  and  the  June 

winds  blow 

The  heavy  curtains  to  and  fro, 
And   the  watchers,  near  him,  whisper 

low. 

Something  the  sick  man  asks  from  his 

bed; 
Is  it  the  leech  or  the  priest  ?  they 

said. 
"  Nay,  bring  me  Bethy,  here,"  he  said. 

"  Have   you    not  heard   me  ;  will   you 

not  heed  ; 

Go  to  the  miller's  wife  with  speed, 
And    tell   her   the    dying   of   her  hath 

need." 


294 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Slowly  the  watchers  shook  the  head, 
They   knew    that    his   poor   wits  wan 
dered  : 

"  Yet,  now  let  him  have  his  way,"  they 
said. 

So  when  the    turn    of   the    night   has 

come, 
She  stands  at  his  bedside,  frightened, 

dumb, 
Holding  his  fingers,  cold  and  numb. 

He  has    sent  the   watchers  and  nurse 

away, 

And  now  he  is  keeping  death  at  bay, 
Till  he  rids  his  soul  of  what  he  would 

say. 

"  Now,  hear  me,  Bethy,  I  am  not  wild, 
As  I  hope  to  God  to  be  reconciled, 
I  am  thy  father  —  thou  my  child  ! 

"  I  loved  a  maiden,  the  noblest  one 
That  ever  the  good  sun  shone  upon  : 
I    had   wealth    and    honors,   she    had 
none. 

"  And  when  I  wooed  her,  she  answered 

me,  — 
'  Nay,  I  am  too  humble  to  wed  with 

thee, 
Let  me  rather  thine  handmaid  be  ! ' 

"  From   home   with  me,  for  love,  she 

fled 

The  night  that  in  secret  we  were  wed  ; 
And   she  kept   the   secret,  living  and 

dead. 

"  Serving  for  wages  duly  paid, 

In  my  home  she  lived,  as  an  humble 

maid, 
Till  under  the  grass  of  the  churchyard 

laid. 

"  Twenty  years  has  remorse  been  fed, 
Twenty  years  has  she  lain  there  dead, 
With  her  sweet  name    Mercy,  at    her 
head. 

"  How    you    came    to    the    world    was 

known 

But  to  the  gardener's  wife  alone, 
Who  took,  and  reared  you  up  as  her 

own. 

"  Though  conscience  whispered,  early 
and  late, 


Your  child  is  worthy  a  higher  fate. 
Still   shame    and   pride    said,    always, 
wait. 

"  But  alas  !  a  debt  unpaid  grows  vast. 
And    whether    it    come,    or    slow    or 

fast, 
The  day  of  reckoning  comes  at  last. 

"  So,  all  there  was  left  to  do,    I   have 

done, 
And   the   gold   and   the  acres   I  have 

won 
Shall  come  to  you  with  the  morning's 

sun. 

"  And  may  this  atone  ;  oh  would  that 
it  might, 

And  lessen  the  guilt  of  my  soul  to 
night, 

For  the  one  great  wrong  that  I  cannot 
right." 

Scarcely    the     daughter    breathed    or 

stirred, 
As    she    listened    close    for     another 

word  ; 
But  "  Mercy  ! "  was  all  that  she  ever 

heard. 

She  clung  to  his  breast,  she  bade  him 

stay, 
But  ere  the  words  to  her  lips  found 

way, 
She  knew  the  thing  that  she  held  was 

clay. 

All  that  she  had  was  a  father's  gold, 
Never  his  kind  warm  hand  to  hold, 
Never  a  kiss  till  his  lips  were  cold  ! 


THE   WIFE. 


Brightly  the  morning  sunshine  glowed, 
As  slowly,  thoughtfully,  Bethy  trode 
Towards  the  mill  by  the  winter  road. 

Now  she  sees  the  mansion  proud  and 


And  its  goodly  acres  stretching  away, 
And  she  knows  that  these  are  hers  to- 

day. 

Glad  visions  surely  before  her  rise, 
For  bright  in  her  cheek  the  color  lies, 
And  a  strange  new  light  in  her  tender 
eyes. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


295 


Now  she  is  rich,  and  a  lady  born, 
Does  she  think  of  her  last  year's  wed 
ding  morn, 

And  the  house  where  she  came  a  bride, 
with  scorn  ? 

And  to  him,  unfit  for  a  lady,  grand, 
To  whom  she  gave  her  willing  hand, 
Though  he  brought  her  neither  house 
nor  land  ? 

How  will  she  meet  him  ?  what  is  his 

fate, 

Who  eager  leans  o'er  the  rustic  gate 
To    watch    her   coming  ?      Hush    and 

wait ! 

No  word  she  says  as  over  the  sill, 
And  into  the  cottage  low  and  still, 
She  walks  by  the  Miller  of  Dovecote 


Why  does  she  tremble,  the  goodman's 

dame, 
And  turn  away  as  she  speaks  his 

name  ? 
Is  it  for  love,  or  alas  !  for  shame  ? 

"  Last  night,"  she  says,  "  as  I  watched 
for  thee, 

Came  those  from  the  great  house  hur 
riedly, 

Who  said  that  the  master  sent  for  me  : 

"  That  his  life  was  burned  to  a  feeble 

flame, 

But  sleeping  or  waking  all  the  same, 
And  day  and  night  he  called  my  name. 

"  So  I  followed  wondering,  where  they 

led, 

And  half  bewildered,  half  in  dread, 
I  stood  at  midnight  by  his  bed. 

"  What   matter,    to    tell  what   he  said 

again  ; 
The  dreams  perchance  of  a  wandering 

brain  ! 
Only  one  thing  is  sure  and  plain. 

"  Of    his   gold    and    land   and    houses 

fine, 

All  that  he  had,  to-day  is  thine, 
Since  in  dying  he  made  them  mine. 

"  I    would   that   the   gift  were    in    thy 

name, 
Yet  mine  or  thine  it  is  all  the  same  ; 


And  we  must  not  speak  of  the  dead 
with  blame. 

"  And  who  but  thee  should  be  his  heir  ? 
Thou  hast  served  him  ever  with  faith 
ful  care, 
And  he  had  no  son  his  name  to  bear  !  " 

Slowly,  as  one  who  marveled  still, 
Answered  the  Miller  of  Dovecote  Mill, 
"  'T  is  a  puzzle,  tell  it  how  you  will, 

"  Why  his  child  could  never  better  fare 
Than  thou,  with  wealth  enough  and  to 

spare, 
For  it  is  not  I  but  thou  who  art  heir. 

"  'T  is  not  so  strange  it  should  come 

to  thee, 
Thou  wert  fit  for  a  lady,  as  all  could 

see, 
And  rich  or  poor,  too  good  for  me." 

Meek  before  him  she  bowed  her  head  ; 
"  I  want  nor  honor  nor  gold,"  she  said, 
"  I  take  my  lot  as  it  is  instead. 

"  Keep  gold  and  lands  and  houses  fine, 
But  give  me  thy  love,  as  I  give  thee 

mine, 
And  my  wealth  shall  still  be  more  than 

thine  ! 

"And  if  I  had  been  in  a  mansion  bred, 
And  not  in  a  humble  cot,"  she  said, 
"  I  think  we  two  should  still  have  wed. 

"  For  if  I  had  owned  the  acres  grand, 
Instead  of  the  gardener's  scanty  land, 
I  had  given  them  all  for  thy  he'art  and 
hand. 

"  So,  heiress  or  lady,  what  you  will, 

This  only  title  I  covet  still, 

Wife  of  the  Miller  of  Dovecote  Mill  !  " 


A  BALLAD  OF  LAUDERDALE. 

A   SHEPHERD'S   child    young   Barbara 
grew, 

A  wild  flower  of  the  vale  ; 
While  gallant  Duncan  was  the  heir 

Of  the  Laird  of  Lauderdale. 

He  sat  at  ease  in  bower  and  hall 
With  ladies  gay  and  fine  ; 


296 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


She  led  her  father's  sheep  at  morn, 
At  eve  she  milked  the  kine. 

O'er  field  and  fell  his  steed  he  rode, 

The  foremost  in  the  race  ; 
She  bounded  graceful  as  the  deer 

He  followed  in  the  chase. 

Yet  oft  he  left  his  pleasant  friends, 
And,  musing,  walked  apart ; 

For  vague  unrest  and  soft  desire 
Were  stirring  in  his  heart. 

One  morn,  when  others  merrily 
Wound  horn  within  the  wood, 

He  on  the  hill-side  strayed  alone, 
In  tender,  thoughtful  mood. 

And  there,  with  yellow  snooded  hair, 

And  plaid  about  her  flung, 
Tending  her  pretty  flock  of  sheep, 

Fair  Barbara  sat  and  sung. 

The  very  heath-flower  bent  to  hear, 
The  echoes  seemed  to  pause, 

As  sweet  and  clear  the  maiden  sang 
The  song  of  "  Leader  Haughs." 

And,    while    young    Duncan,    gazing, 
stood 

Enchanted  by  the  sound, 
He  from  the  arrows  of  her  eyes 

Received  a  mortal  wound  ! 

"Sweet   maid,"   he   cried,    "the   first 
whose  power 

Hath  ever  held  me  fast ; 
Now  take  my  love,  or  scorn  my  love, 

You  still  shall  be  the  last !  "' 

She  felt  her  heart  with  pity  move, 

Yet  hope  within  her  died  ; 
She  knew  her  friendless  poverty, 

She  knew  his  wealth  and  pride. 

"  Alas  !  your  father's  scorn,"  she  said, 

"  Alas  !  my  humble  state." 
"  'T  were  pity,"  Duncan  gayly  cried, 

But  love  were  strong  as  hate  !  " 

He  took  her  little  trembling  hand, 

He  kissed  her  fears  away ; 
'k  Whate'er    the    morrow   brings,"    he 
said, 

"  We  '11  live  and  love  to-day  !  " 

So  all  the  summer  through  they  met, 
Nor  thought  what  might  betide, 


Till  the  purple  heather  all  about 
The  hills  grew  brown  and  died. 

One  eve  they,  parting,  lingered  long 

Together  in  the  dell, 
When  suddenly  a  shadow  black 

As  fate  between  them  fell. 

The   hot    blood    rushed   to    Duncan's 
brow, 

The  maiden's  cheek  grew  pale, 
For  right  across  their  pathway  frowned 

The  Laird  of  Lauderdale. 

Ah  !  cruel  was  the  word  he  spake, 

And  cruel  was  his  deed  ; 
He  would  not  see  the  maiden's  face, 

Nor  hear  the  lover  plead. 

He  called  his  followers,  in  wrath, 
They  came  in  haste  and  fright ; 

They  tore  the  youth  from  out  her  arms, 
They  bore  him  from  her  sight. 

And  he  at  eve  may  come  no  more  ; 

Her  song  no  more  she  trills  ; 
Her  cheek  is  whiter  than  the  lambs 

She  leads  along  the  hills. 

For  Barbara  now  is  left  alone 
Through  all  the  weary  hours, 

While  Duncan  pines  a  prisoner,  fast 
Within  his  father's  towers. 

And    autumn    goes,    and    spring-time 
comes, 

And  Duncan,  true  and  bold, 
Has  scorned  alike  his  father's  threats 

And  bribes  of  land  and  gold. 

And    autumn    goes,    and    spring-time 
comes, 

And  Barbara  sings  and  smiles  : 
"  'T  is  fair  for  love,"   she  softly  says, 

"  To  use  love's  arts  and  wiles." 

No  other  counselor  hath  she 
But  her  own  sweet  constancy  ; 

Yet  hath  her  wit  devised  a  way 
To  set  her  true  love  free. 

One  night,  when  slumber  brooded  deep 

O'er  all  the  peaceful  glen, 
She  baked  a  cake,  the  like  of  which 

Was  never  baked  till  then. 

For  first  she  took  a  slender  cord, 
And  wound  it  close  and  small  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


297 


Then  in  the  barley  bannock  safe 
She  hid  the  mystic  ball. 

Next     morn    her    father    missed    his 
child, 

He  searched  the  valley  round  ; 
But  not  a  maid  like  her  within 

Twice  twenty  miles  was  found. 

For  she  hath  ta'en  the  maiden  snood 
And  the  bright  curls  from  her  head, 

And  now  she  wears  the  bonnet  blue 
Of  a  shepherd  lad  instead. 

And  she  hath  crossed  the  silent  hills, 
And  crossed  the  lonely  vale  ; 

And  safe  at  morn  she  stands  before 
The  towers  of  Lauderdale. 

And  not  a  hand  is  raised  to  harm 

The  pretty  youth  and  tall, 
With  just  a  bannock  in  his  scrip, 

Who  stands  without  the  wall. 

Careless  awhile  he  wanders  round. 

But  when  the  daylight  dies 
He   comes   and    stands    beneath    the 
tower 

Where  faithful  Duncan  lies. 

Fond  man  !  nor  sunset  dyes  he  sees, 

Nor  stars  come  out  above  ; 
His  thoughts  are  all  upon  the  hills, 

Where  first  he  learned  to  love  ; 

When  suddenly  he  hears  a  voice, 
That  makes  his  pulses  start  — 

A    sweet      voice      singing      "  Leader 

Haughs," 
The  song  that  won  his  heart. 

He  leans  across  the  casement  high  ; 

A  minstrel  boy  he  spies  ; 
He  knows  the  maiden  of  his  love 

Through  all  her  strange  disguise  ! 

She  made  a  sign,  she  spake  no  word, 
And  never  a  word  spake  he  ; 

She  took  the  bannock  from  her  scrip 
And  brake  it  on  her  knee  ! 

She  threw  the  slender  cord  aloft, 
He  caught  and  made  it  fast  ; 

One  moment  more  and  he  is  safe, 
Free  as  the  winds  at  last  ! 

No  time  is  this  for  speech  or  kiss, 
No  time  for  aught  but  flight ; 


His  good  steed  standing  in  the  stall 
Must  bear  them  far  to-night. 

So  swiftly  Duncan  brought  him  forth, 

He  mounted  hastily  ; 
"  Now,  set  your  foot  on  mine,"  he  said, 

"  And  give  your  hand  to  me'!  " 

He  lifts  her  up  ;  they  sweep  the  hills, 
They  ford  the  foaming  beck  ; 

He  kisses  soft  the  loving  hands 
That  cling  about  his  neck. 

In  vain  at  morn  the  Laird,  in  wrath, 
Would  follow  where  they  fled  ; 

They  're  o'er  the  Border,  far  away, 
Before  the  east  is  red. 

And  when  the  third  day's  sun  at  eve 

Puts  on  his  purple  state, 
Brave  Duncan  checks  his  foaming  steed 

Before  his  father's  gate. 

Out  came  the  Laird,  with  cruel  look, 
With  quick  and  angry  stride  ; 

When  at  his  feet  down  knelt  his  son, 
With  Barbara  at  his  side, 

"  Forgive  me,  father,"  low  he  said, 
No  single  word  she  spake  ; 

But  the  tender  face  she  lifted  up 
Plead  for  her  lover's  sake. 

She  raised  to  him  her  trembling  hands, 
In  her  eyes  the  tears  were  bright, 

And  any  but  a  heart  of  stone 
Had  melted  at  the  sight. 

"  Let  love,"  cried  Duncan,  "  bear  the 
blame, 

Love  would  not  be  denied  ; 
Fast  were  we  wedded  yestermorn, 

I  bring  you  here  my  bride  !  " 

Then  the  Laird  looked  down  into  her 

eyes, 

And  his  tears  were  near  to  fall  ; 
He    raised   them   both    from    off    the 

ground, 
He  led  them  toward  the  Hall. 

Wondering  the  mute  retainers  stood, 
"  Why  give  you  not,"  he  said, 

"  The  homage  due  unto  my  son, 
And  to  her  whom  he  hath  wed  ?  " 

Then  every  knee  was  lowly  bent, 
And  every  head  was  bare  ; 


298 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY, 


"  Long  live,"  they  cried,  "  his  fair  young 

bride, 
And  our  master's  honored  heir  ! 

Years  come  and  go,  and  in  his  stall 
The  good  steed  idly  stands  ; 

The  Laird  is  laid  with  his  line  to  rest, 
By  his  children's  loving  hands. 

And  now  within  the  castle  proud 

They  lead  a  happy  life  ; 
For  he  is  Laird  of  Lauderdale, 

And  she  his  Lady  wife. 

And  oft,  when  hand  in  hand  they  sit, 

And  watch  the  day  depart, 
She     sings     the     song    of     "  Leader 
Haughs," 

The  song  that  won  his  heart  ! 


THE   THREE   WRENS. 

MR.  WREN  and  his  dear  began  early 

one  year  — 
They  were  maried,  of  course,  on  St. 

Valentine's  Day,  — 
To  build  such  a  nest  as  was  safest  and 

best, 

And  to  get  it  all  finished  and  ready 
by  May. 

Their  house,  snug  and  fine,  they  set  up 

in  a  vine 

That  sheltered  a  cottage  from  sun 
shine  and  heat : 
Mrs.  Wren    said  :  "  I  am  sure,  this  is 

nice  and  secure  ; 

And  besides,  I  can  see  in  the  house, 
or  the  street." 

Mr.  Wren,  who  began,  like  a  wise  mar 
ried  man, 
To  check  his  mate's  weak  inclination 

to  roam, 

Shook   his   little  brown  head,  and  re 
provingly  said  : 

"  My  dear,  you  had  better  be  looking 
at  home. 

"  You  '11  be  trying  the    street    pretty 

soon  with  your  feet, 
And  neglecting  your  house  and  my 

comfort,  no  doubt, 
And  you  '11  find  a  pretext  for  a  call  on 

them  next, 

If  you  watch  to  see  what  other  folks 
are  about. 


"  There  's  your  own  home  to  see,  and 

besides  there  is  me, 
And  this  visiting  neighbors  is  non 
sense  and  stulY! 
You    would    like    to  know  why  ?  well, 

you  'd  better  not  try  ;  — 
I  don't  choose  to  have  you,  and  that 
is  enough  !  " 

Mrs.  Wren  did  not  say  she  would  have 

her  own  way,  — 
In  fact,  she  seemed  wonderfully  meek 

and  serene  ; 
But  she  thought,  I  am  sure,  though  she 

looked  so  demure, 
"  Well  I  don't   care  ;   I  think   you  're 

most  awfully  mean  !  " 

Mr.  Wren  soon  flew  off,  thinking,  likely 

enough, 

I  could  manage  a  dozen  such  creat 
ures  with  ease  ; 
She  began  to  reflect,  I  see  what  you 

expect, 

But  if   I   know  myself,  I    shall  look 
where  I  please  ! 

However,  at  night,  when  he  came  from 

his  flight, 
Both  acted  as  if  there  was  nothing 

amiss  : 
Put  a  wing  o'er  their  head,  and  went 

chirping  to  bed, 

To  dream  of  a  summer  of  sunshine 
and  bliss. 

I  need  scarcely  remark,  they  were  up 

with  the  lark, 
And  by  noon  they  were  tired  of  work 

without  play  ; 
And  thought  it  was  best  for  the  present 

to  rest, 

And  then  finish  their  task  in  the  cool 
of  the  day. 

So,  concealed  by  the  leaves  that  grew 

thick  to  the  eaves, 
He  shut  himself  in,  and  he  shut  the 

world  out  ;  — 
"  Now,"  said  she,  "  he  's  asleep,  I  will 

just  take  a  peep 

In  the  cottage,  and  see  what  the  folks 
are  about." 

Then    she    looked    very  sly,  from   her 

perch  safe  and  high, 
Through  the  great  open  window,  left 
wide  for  the  sun  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


299 


And  she  said :   "  I  can't  see  what  the 

danger  can  be, 

I  am  sure  here  is  nothing  to  fear  or 
to  shun  ! 

"  There 's  an  old  stupid  cat,  half  asleep 

on  the  mat, 
But  I  think  she  's  too  lazy  to  stir  or 

to  walk  ;  — 

Oh,  you  just  want  to  show  your  impor 
tance,  I  know, 

But  you  can't  frighten  me,  Mr.  Wren, 
with  your  talk  ! 

"  Now  to  have  my  own  will,  I  '11  step 

down  on  that  sill  ; 
I  ;m  not  an  inquisitive  person  —  oh, 

no; 
I  don't  want  to  see  what 's  improper 

for  me, 

But  I  like  to  find  out  for  myself  that 
it's  so." 

Then  this  rash  little  wren  hopped  on 

farther  again, 
And  grown  bolder,  flew  in,  and  sat 

perched  on  a  chair  ; 
Saying,  "  What  there  is    here    that  is 

dreadful  or  queer, 

I   have  n't  been  able  to  find,   I   de 
clare. 

"  Well,    I    wish    for    your    sake,    Mr. 

Wren,  you  would  wake, 
And  see  what  effect  all  your  warning 

has  had  ; 
Ah  !    I  '11  call  up  that  cat,  and   we  '11 

have  a  nice  chat, 

And    rouse    him  with    talking  —  oh, 
won't  he  be  mad  !  " 

So  she   cried,  loud  and  clear,  "  Good- 
day,  Tabby,  my  dear  ! 
I  think  neighbors  a  neighborly  feel 
ing  should  show." 
u  How  your  friendliness  charms,"  said 

Puss  ;   "  come  to  my  arms, 
I   have   had    my  eye  on    you   some 
time,  do  you  know  !  " 

Something  like  a  sharp  snap  broke  that 

moment  his  nap, 
And  Mr.  Wren  said,  with  a  stretch 

and  a  wink  : 
"  I  suppose,  dear,  your  sleep  has  been 

tranquil  and  deep  ; 
I   just  lost  myself  for  a  moment,  I 
think. 


"  Why  !   she  's  gone,  I  declare  I  well, 

I  'd  like  to  know  where  ?  " 
And  his  head  up  and  down  peering 

round  him  lie  dips  ; 
All  he  saw  in  the  gloom  of  the  shadowy 

room, 

Was  an  innocent  cat  meekly  licking 
her  lips  ! 

" 'T  is   too   bad  she's    away;    for,    of 

course,  I  can't  stay,"  " 
Said  the  great  Mr.  Wren,  "shut  in 

this  little  space  : 
We    must    come    and    must    go,    but 

these  females,  you  know, 
Never  need  any  changes  of  work  or 
of  place. 

And  then  he  began,  like  a  badly-used 

man, 

To  twitter  and  chirp  with  an  impa 
tient  cry  ; 
But  soon  pausing,   sang  out,   "  She  's 

gone  off  in  a  pout, 
But  if  she  prefers  being  alone,  so  do 

"  Yet  the  place  is  quite   still,  so   I  '11 

whistle  until 
She  returns  to  her  home  full  of  shame 

and  remorse  ; 
I  'm   not  lonesome   at  all,  but  it 's   no 

harm  to  call ; 

She  '11  come  back  fast  enough  when 
she  hears  me,  of  course  !  " 

So  he  started  his  tune,  but  broke  off 

very  soon, 
As    if   he'd    been   wasting  his  time, 

like  a  dunce  ; 
For  he  suddenly  caught  at  a  very  wise 

thought, 

And    he  "altered  his  whole    plan  of 
action  at  once. 

"  Now,  that  cat,"  he  exclaimed,  "  may 

be  wrongfully  blamed  ; 
And   since  it 's   a  delicate  matter  to 

broach, 
I  don't  say  of  her,  that  she  is  not  sans 

Peur, 

But  I  'm  sure  in  this  matter  she  's 
not  sans  reproche  ! 

"  Ah  !   I  can't  love  a  wren,  as  I  loved 

her,  again, 

But  I  '11  try  to  be  manly  and  act  as  I 
ought ; 


300 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHOEBE   CARY. 


And  the  birds  in  the  trees,  like  the  fish 

in  the  seas, 

May  be  just  as  good  ones  as  ever 
were  caught. 

"  And  if  one  in  the  hand,  as  all  men 

understand, 
Is  worth  two  in  the  bush,"  Mr.  Wren 

gravely  said, 
"  Then  it  seems  to  me  plain,  by  that 

same  rule  again, 

That  a  bird   in  the   bush  is  worth 
two  that  are  dead." 

So  he  dropped   his  sad  note,  and  he 

smoothed  down  his  coat, 
Till   his  late-ruffled  plumage  shone 

glossy  and  bright  ; 
And  light  as  a  breeze,  through  the  fields 

and  the  trees, 

He  floated  and   caroled  till  lost  to 
the  sight. 

And  in  no  longer  time  than  it  takes  for 

my  rhyme,  — 
Now  would  you  believe  it  ?  and  is  n't 

it  strange  !  — 
He  returned  all  elate,  bringing  home  a 

new  mate  : 

But  birds  are  but  birds,  and  are  given 
to  change. 

Of  course,  larger  folks  are  quite  crushed 

by  such  strokes, 
And  never  are  guilty  of  like  fickle 

freaks  ;  — 
Ah  !  a  bird's  woe  is  brief,  but  our  great 

human  grief 

Will  sometimes  affect  us  for  days 
and  for  weeks  ! 

But  this  does  not  belong  of  good  right 

to  my  song, 
For  I  started  to  tell  about  birds  and 

their  kind  ; 
So  I  '11  say  Mr.  Wren,  when  he  married 

again, 

Took  a  wife  who  had  not  an  inquiring 
mind. 

For   he    said  what  was  true  :    "  Mrs. 

Wren,  number  two, 
You  would  not  have  had  such  good 

fortune,  my  dear, 
If  the  first,  who  is  dead,  had  believed 

what  I   said, 

And    contented    herself   in  her  own 
proper  sphere." 


Now,  to  some  it  might  seem  like  the 

very  extreme 
Of  folly  to  ask  what  you  know  very 

well ; 
But  this  Mrs.  Wren  did,  and  behaved 

as  he  bid, 

Never  asking  the  wherefore,  and  he 
did  n't  tell. 

Yes,  this  meek  little  bird  never  thought, 

never  stirred, 
Without  craving  leave  in  the  proper- 

est  way  : 
She  said,  with  the  rest,  "  Shall  I  sit  on 

my  nest 

For  three   weeks  or  thirteen  ?     I  '11 
do  just  as  you  say  !  " 

Now  I  think,  in  the  main,  it  is  best  to 

explain 
The  right  and  the  reason  of  what  we 

command  ; 
But  he  would  n't,  not  he  ;  a  poor  female 

was  she, 

And  he  was  a  male  bird  as  large  as 
your  hand  ! 

And  one  more  thing,  I  find,  is  borne  in 

on  my  mind  : 
Mr.  Wren  may  be  right,  but  it  seems 

to  me  strange, 
That  while  both  his  grief  and  his  love 

were  so  brief, 

He  should  claim  such  devotion  and 
trust  in  exchange  ! 

And  yet  I  've  been  told,  that  with  birds 

young  and  old, 
All  the  males  should  direct,  all  the 

females  obey ; 
Though,  to  speak  for  a  bird,  so  at  least 

I  have  heard, 

You  must  be  one  :  —  as  I  never  was, 
I  can't  say  ! 


DOROTHY'S  DOWER. 

IN   THREE   PARTS. 
PART  I. 

"  MY  sweetest  Dorothy,"  said  John, 
Of  course  before  the  wedding, 

As  metaphorically  he  stood, 
His  gold  upon  her  shedding, 

"Whatever  thing  you  wish  or  want 
Shall  be  hereafter  granted, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


301 


For  all  my  worldly  goods  are  yours." 
The  fellow  was  enchanted  ! 

"  About  that  little  dower  you  have, 

You  thought  might  yet  come  handy, 
Throw  it  away,  do  what  you  please, 

Spend  it  on  sugar-candy  ! 
I  like  your  sweet,  dependent  ways, 

I  love  you  when  you  tease  me  ; 
The  more  you  ask,  the  more  you  spend, 

The  better  you  will  please  me." 

PART  II. 

"  Confound  it,  Dorothy  !  "  said  John, 

"  I  have  n't  got  it  by  me. 
You  have  n't,  have  you,  spent  that  sum, 

The  dower  from  Aunt  Jemima  ? 
No;  well  that 's  sensible  for  you  ; 

This  fix  is  most  unpleasant  ; 
But  money  's  tight,  so  just  take  yours 

And  use  it  for  the  present. 
Now  I  must  go  —  to  —  meet  a  man  ! 

By  George  !   I  '11  have  to  borrow  ! 
Lend  me  a  twenty  —  that 's  all  right  ! 

I  '11  pay  you  back  to-morrow." 

PART  III 

"  Madam,"  says  John  to  Dorothy, 

And  past  her  rudely  pushes, 
"  You  think  a  man  is  'made  of  gold, 

And  money  grows  on  bushes  ! 
Toirfs  shoes  !  your  doctor  !  Can't  you 
now 

Get  up  some  new  disaster  ? 
You  and  your  children  are  enough 

To  break  John  Jacob  Astor. 
Where  's  what  you  had  yourself  when  I 

Was  fool  enough  to  court  you  ? 
That  little  sum,  till  you  got  me, 

'T  was  what  had  to  support  you  !  " 
"  It 's  lent  and  gone,  not  very  far ; 

Pray  don't  be  apprehensive." 
"Lent .'     I  've  had  use  enough  for  it : 

My  family  is  expensive. 
I  did  n't,  as  a  woman  would, 

Spend  it  on  sugar-candy  !  " 
"  No,  John,  I  think  the  most  of  it 

Went  for  cigars  and  brandy  !  " 


BLACK  RANALD. 

IN  the  time  when  the  little  flowers  are 

born, 
The  joyfulest  time  of  the  year, 


Fair  Marion  from  the  Hall  rode  forth 
To  chase  the  fleet  red  deer. 

She  moved  among  her  comely  maids 

With  such  a  stately  mien 
That  they  seemed  like  humble  violets 

By  the  side  of  a  lily  queen. 

For  she,  of  beauties  fair,  was  named 

The  fairest  in  the  land  ; 
And   lovelorn   youths   had   pined   and 
died 

For  the  clasp  of  her  lady  hand. 

But  never  suitor  yet  had  pressed 

Her  dainty  finger-tips  ; 
And  never  cheek  that  wore  a  beard 

Had  touched  her  maiden  lips. 

She  laughed  and  danced,  she  laughed 

and  sang  ; 

She  bade  her  lovers  wait  ; 
Till   the    gallant    Stuart    Graeme,    one 

morn. 
Checked  rein  at  her  father's  gate. 

She  blushed  and  sighed  ;  she  laughed 

no  more  ; 

She  sang  a  low  refrain  ; 
And,    when    the    bold    young    Stuart 

wooed, 
He  did  not  woo  in  vain. 

And  now,  as  to  the  chase  she  rides, 

Across  her  father's  land, 
She  wears  a  bright  betrothal  ring 

Upon  her  snowy  hand. 

She  loosed  the  rein,  she  touched  the 

flank 

Of  her  royal  red-roan  steed. 
"  Now,  who    among   my  friends,"  she 

said, 
"  Will  vie  with  me  in  speed  ? " 

She  looked  at  Graeme  before  them  all, 
Though  her  face  was  rosy  red. 

"  He  who  can  catch  me  as  I  ride 
Shall  be  my  squire,"  she  said. 

Away  !  they  scarce  can  follow 
Even  with  their  eager  eyes  ; 

She  clears  the  stream,  she  skims  the 

plain 
Swift  as  the  swallow  flies. 

Alack  !  no  charger  in  the  train 
Can  match  with  hers  to-day  ; 


302 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


The  very  deer-hounds,  left  behind, 
Are  yelling  in  dismay. 

Far  out  upon  the  lonely  moor 
Her  speed  she  checks  at  last ; 

One  single  horseman  follows  her, 
With  hoof-strokes  gaining  fast. 

She  's  smiling  softly  to  herself, 
She  's  speaking  soft  and  low  : 

"  None  but  the  gallant  Stuart  Graeme 
Could  follow  where  I  go  !  " 

She  wheels  her  horse  ;  she  sees  a  sight 
That  makes  her  pulses  stand  ; 

Her  very  cheek,  but  now  so  red, 
Grows  whiter  than  her  hand. 

For,  while  no  friend  she  sees  the  way 
Her  frightened  eyes  look  back, 

Black  Ranald,  of  the  Haunted  Tower, 
Is  close  upon  her  track  ! 

He  's  gained  her  side  ;  he  's  seized  her 
rein  — 

The  crudest  man  in  the  land  ; 
And  he  has  clasped  her  virgin  waist 

With  his  wicked,  wicked  hand. 

She  feels  his  breath  upon  her  face, 
She  hears  his  mocking  tone, 

As  he  lifts  her  from  her  red-roan  steed 
And  sets  her  on  his  own. 

"  Proud  Mistress  Marion,"  he  cries, 
"  In  spite  of  all  your  scorn, 

Black  Ranald  is  your  squire  to-day, 
He  '11  be  your  lord  at  morn  !  " 

She  hears  no  more,  she  sees  no  more, 

For  many  a  weary  hour, 
Till  from  her  deadly  swoon  she  wakes 

In  Ranald's  Haunted  Tower. 

For,  in  the  "highest  turret  there, 

With  never  a  friend  in  call, 
He   has   tied   her  hands  with  a  silver 
chain 

And  bound  them  to  the  wall. 

She  fears  no  ghosts  that  haunt  the  dark, 
But  she  fears  the  coming  dawn  ; 

And  her  heart  grows  sick  when  at  day 

she  hears 
The  prison-bolts  withdrawn. 

She  summons  all  her  strength,  as  they 
Who  for  the  headsman  wait ; 


And  she  prays  to  every  virgin  saint 
To  help  her  in  her  strait  ; 

For  she  sees  her  jailer  cross  the  sill. 

"  Now,  if  you  will  wed  with  me," 
He  said,  "  henceforth  of  my  house  and 
land 

You  shall  queen  and  ruler  be." 

"  Bold  Ranald  of  the  Tower,''  she  said, 
"  With  heart  as  black  as  your  name, 

I  will  only  be  the  bride  of  Death 
Or  the  bride  of  Stuart  Graeme. 

"  I  will  make  the  coldest,  darkest  bed 
In  the  dismal  church-yard  mine, 

And  lay  me  down  to  sleep  in  it, 
Or  ever  I  sleep  in  thine  !  " 

"  I  shall  tame  you  yet,  proud  girl,"  he 

cried, 

11  For  you  shall  not  be  free, 
Nor  bread   nor  wine   shall  pass  your 

lips 
Till  you  vow  to  wed  with  me  !  " 

She  turned  ;  she  laughed  in  his  very 
face  : 

"  Sir  Knave,  your  threats  are  vain  ; 
Nor  bread  nor  wine  shall  pass  my  lips 

Till  I  am  free  again  !  " 

He  echoed  back  her  mocking  laugh, 
He  turned  him  on  his  heel  ; 

When  something  smote  upon  his  ear 
Like  the  ringing  clang  of  steel. 

The    bolts   are    snapped  ;    the    strong 
door  falls  ; 

The  Graeme  is  standing  there  ; 
And  a  hundred  armed  men  at  his  back 

Are  swarming  up  the  stair  ! 

Black  Ranald  put  his  horn  to  his  lips 

And  blew  a  warning  note. 
"  Your    followers    lie,"    brave    Stuart 
said, 

"  Six  deep  within  the  moat  ! 

"  Alone,  a  prisoner  in  your  tower, 

Now  yield,  or  you  are  dead  !  " 
Black    Ranald    gnashed   his    teeth    in 


rage, 
I  yield  to  none,"  he  said. 


They  drew  their  swords. 

the  death," 
Said  Graeme,  "  you  merit  well." 


Now  die 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


303 


And  as  he  spake,  at  Marion's  feet 
The  lifeless  Ranald  fell. 

The  Stuart  raised  the  death-pale  maid  ; 

He  broke  her  silver  chain  ; 
He  bore  her  down,  and  set  her  safe 

On  her  good  red-roan  again. 

Now  closely  at  his  side  she  rides, 
Nor  heeds  them  one  and  all ; 

And  his  hand  ne'er  quits  her  bridle-rein 
Till  they  reach  her  father's  Hall. 

Then  the  glad  sire  clasps  that  hand  in 

his  own, 
While    the    tears   to  his  beard  drop 

slow  ; 
"  You  have  saved  my  child  and  rid  the 

land," 
He  cries,  "  of  a  cruel  foe  ; 

"And  if  this  maiden  say  not  nay,"  — 
Her  cheeks  burned  like  a  flame,  — 

"  Then  you  shall  be  my  son  to-night, 
And  she  shall  bear  your  name." 

They  have  set  the  lights  in  every  room  ; 

They  have  spread  the  wedding-feast ; 

And    from    the    neighboring   cloister's 


cell 


They  have  brought  the  holy  priest. 

And  she  is  a  captive  once  again  — 

The  timid,  tender  dove  ! 
For    she    slipped   the    silver  chain    to 
wear 

The  golden  chain  of  love  ! 

Sweet  Marion,  under  her  snow-white 

veil, 

Stands  fast  by  her  captor's  side, 
As  he  binds  her  hands  with  the  mar 
riage-ring 
And  kisses  her  first,  a  bride  ! 


THE   LEAK   IN   THE   DIKE. 

A    STORY    OF    HOLLAND. 

THE  good  dame  looked  from  her  cot 
tage 

At  the  close  of  the  pleasant  day, 
And  cheerily  called  to  her  little  son 

Outside  the  door  at  play  : 
"  Come,  Peter,  come  !   I  'want  you    to 

.go, 
While  there  is  light  to  see, 


To  the  hut  of  the  blind  old  man  who 
lives 

Across  the  dike,  for  me  ; 
And  take  these  cakes  I  made  for  him  — 

They  are  hot  and  smoking  yet ; 
You  have  time  enough  to  go  and  come 

Before  the  sun  is  set." 

Then    the    good-wife    turned    to    her 
labor, 

Humming  a  simple  song, 
And  thought  of  her  husband,  working 
hard 

At  the  sluices  all  day  long  ; 
And  set  the  turf  a-blazing, 

And  brought  the  coarse  black  bread  ; 
That  he  might  find  a  fire  at  night, 

And  find  the  table  spread. 

And  Peter  left  the  brother, 

With  whom  all  day  he  had  played, 
And  the  sister  who  had  watched  their 
sports 

In  the  willow's  tender  shade  ; 
And  told  them  they  'd   see  him  back 
before 

They  saw  a  star  in  sight, 
Though  he  would  n't  be  afraid  to  go 

In  the  very  darkest  night  ! 
For  he  was  a  brave,  bright  fellow, 

With  eye  and  conscience  clear  ; 
He  could  do  whatever  a  boy  might  do. 

And  he  had  not  learned  to  fear. 
Why,  he  would  n't  have  robbed  a  bird's 
nest, 

Nor  brought  a  stork  to  harm, 
Though  never  a  law  in  Holland 

Had  stood  to  stay  his  arm  ! 

And  now,  with  his  face  all  glowing, 

And  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day 
With    the    thoughts    of    his    pleasant 
errand, 

He  trudged  along  the  way  ; 
And  soon  his  joyous  prattle 

Made  glad  a  lonesome  place  — 
Alas  !  if  only  the  blind  old  man 

Could  have  seen  that  happy  face  ! 
Yet  he  somehow  caught  the  brightness 

Which  his  voice  and  presence  lent  ; 
And  he  felt  the  sunshine  come  and  go 

As  Peter  came  and  went. 

And  now,  as  the  day  was  sinking, 
And  the  winds  began  to  rise, 

The    mother    looked    from    her    door 

again, 
Shading  her  anxious  eyes  ; 


304 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


And  saw  the  shadows  deepen 

And    birds    to    their    homes    come 

back, 
But  never  a  sign  of  Peter 

Along  the  level  track. 
But  she  said  :   "  He  will  come  at  morn 
ing, 

So  I  need  not  fret  or  grieve  — 
Though  it  is  n't  like  my  boy  at  all 

To  stay  without  my  leave." 

But  where  was  the  child  delaying  ? 

On  the  homeward  way  was  he, 
And  across  the  dike  while  the  sun  was 
up 

An  hour  above  the  sea. 
He  was  stopping  now  to  gather  flow 
ers. 

Now  listening  to  the  sound, 
As  the  angry  waters  dashed  themselves 

Against  their  narrow  bound. 
"  Ah  !  well  for  us,"  said  Peter, 

"  That  the  gates  are  good  and  strong, 
And  my  father  tends  them  carefully, 

Or  they  would  not  hold  you  long  ! 
You  're  a  wicked  sea,"  said  Peter  ; 

"  I  know  why  you  fret  and  chafe  ; 
You  would  like  to  spoil  our  lands  and 
homes  ; 

But  our  sluices  keep  you  safe  !  " 

But  hark  !     Through  the  noise  of  wa 
ters 

Comes  a  low,  clear,  trickling  sound  ; 

And  the  child's  face  pales  with  terror. 

And    his    blossoms     drop     to     the 

ground. 
He  is  up  the  bank  in  a  moment, 

And,  stealing  through  the  sand, 
He  sees  a  stream  not  yet  so  large 

As  his  slender,  childish  hand. 
'Tis  a  leak  in  the  dike  !     He  is  but  a 

boy, 

Unused  to  fearful  scenes  ; 
But,  young  as  he  is,  he  has  learned  to 

know 

The  dreadful  thing  that  means. 
A    leak    in    the  dike!     The    stoutest 

heart 

Grows  faint  that  cry  to  hear, 
And  the  bravest  man  in  all  the  land 

Turns  white  with  mortal  fear. 
For  he   knows  the  smallest  leak  may 

grow 

To  a  flood  in  a  single  night ; 
And   he    knows    the    strength    of    the 

cruel  sea 
When  loosed  in  its  angry  might. 


And    the    boy  !     He    has     seen    the 
danger, 

And,  shouting  a  wild  alarm, 
He  forces  back  the  weight  of  the  sea 

With  the  strength  of  his  single  arm  ! 
He  listens  for  the  joyful  sound 

Of  a  footstep  passing  nigh  ; 
And   lays   his    ear  to  the  ground,   to 
catch 

The  answer  to  his  cry. 
And  he  hears  the  rough  winds  blowing, 

And  the  waters  rise  and  fall, 
But  never  an  answer  comes  to  him, 

Save  the  echo  of  his  call. 
He  sees  no  hope,  no  succor, 

His  feeble  voice  is  lost ; 
Yet  what  shall  he  do  but  watch  and 
wait, 

Though  he  perish  at  his  post ! 

So,  faintly  calling  and  crying 

Till  the  sun  is  under  the  sea ; 
Crying  and  moaning  till  the  stars 

Come  out  for  company  ; 
He  thinks  of  his  brother  and  sister, 

Asleep  in  their  safe  warm  bed ; 
He  thinks  of  his  father  and  mother, 

Of  himself  as  dying  —  and  dead  ; 
And  of  how,  when  the  night  is  over, 

They  must  come   and   find   him   at 

last : 

But  he  never  thinks  he  can  leave  the 
place 

Where  duty  holds  him  fast. 

The  good  dame  in  the  cottage 

Is  up  and  astir  with  the  light, 
For  the  thought  of  her  little  Peter 

Has  been  with  her  all  night. 
And  now  she  watches  the  pathway, 

As  yester  eve  she  had  done  ; 
But  what  does  she  see  so  strange  and 
black 

Against  the  rising  sun  ? 
Her   neighbors   are   bearing    between 
them 

Something  straight  to  her  door  ; 
Her  child  is  coming  home,  but  not 

As  he  ever  came  before  ! 

"  He  is  dead  !"  she  cries  ;    "  my  dar 
ling  !  " 

And  the  startled  father  hears, 
And   comes    and    looks    the   way  she 

looks, 

And  fears  the  thing  she  fears  : 
Till  a  glad  shout  from  the  bearers 
Thrills  the  stricken  man  and  wife  — 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


305 


"  Give  thanks,  for  your  son  has  saved 
our  land, 

And  God  has  saved  his  life  !  " 
So,  there  in  the  morning  sunshine 

They  knelt  about  the  boy  ; 
And  every  head  was  bared  and  bent 

In  tearful,  reverent  joy. 

'T  is  many  a  year  since  then  ;  but  still, 

When  the  sea  roars  like  a  flood. 
Their  boys  are  taught  what  a  boy  can  do 

Who  is  brave  and  true  and  good. 
For  every  man  in  that  country 

Takes  his  son  by  the  hand, 
And  tells  him  of  little  Peter, 

Whose  courage  saved  the  land. 

They  have  many  a  valiant  hero, 
Remembered  through  the  years  : 
But  never  one  whose  name  so  oft 

Is  named  with  loving  tears. 
And   his    deed   shall   be    sung  by  the 
cradle, 

And  told  to  the  child  on  the  knee, 
So  long  as  the  dikes  of  Holland 

Divide  the  land  from  the  sea  ! 


THE  LANDLORD  OF  THE  BLUE 
HEN. 

ONCE,  a  long  time  ago,  so  good  stories 
begin, 

There  stood  by  a  roadside  an  old-fash 
ioned  inn  ; 

An  inn,  which  the  landlord  had  named 
"  The  Blue  Hen," 

While  he,  by  his  neighbors,  was  called 
"  Uncle  Ben  ;  " 

At  least,  they  quite   often   addressed 

him  that  way 
When  ready  to  drink  but  not  ready  to 

pay; 
Though  when  he  insisted  on  having  the 

cash, 
They  went  off,   muttering  "  Rummy," 

and  "  Old  Brandy  Smash." 

He  sold  barrels  of  liquor,  but  still  the 

old  "Hen" 
Seemed  never  to  flourish,  and  neither 

did  "Ben  ;" 
For  he  drank  up  the  profits,  as  every 

one  knew, 
Even  those  who  were  drinking  their 

profits  up,  too. 


So,  with  all  they  could  drink,  and  with 

all  they  could  pay, 
The  landlord  grew  poorer  and  poorer 

each  day ; 
Men    said,  as    he    took  down  the   gin 

from  the  shelf, 
"  The    steadiest   customer   there    was 

himself." 

There  was  hardly  a  man  living  in  the 

same  street 
But  had  too  much  to  drink  and  too  little 

to  eat  ; 
The  women  about  the  old  "  Hen  "  got 

the  blues; 
The  girls  had  no  bonnets,  the  boys  had 

no  shoes. 

When  a  poor  fellow  died,  he  was  borne 
on  his  bier 

By  his  comrades,  whose  hands  shook 
with  brandy  and  fear  ; 

For  of  course,  they  were  terribly  fright 
ened,  and  yet, 

They  went  back  to  "  The  Blue  Hen  " 
to  drink  and  forget  ! 

There  was  one  jovial  farmer  who 
could  n't  get  by 

The  door  of  "  The  Blue  Hen  "  without 
feeling  dry  ; 

One  day  he  discovered  his  purse  grow 
ing  light, 

"There  must  be  a  leak  somewhere," 
he  said.  He  was  right  ! 

Then  there  was    the    blacksmith    (the 

best  ever  known 
Folks    said,   if    he  'cl    only  let   liquor 

alone) 
Let  his  forge  cool  so  often,  at  last  he 

forgot 
To  heat  up  his  iron  and  strike  when 

't  was  hot. 

Once  a  miller,  going  home  from  "  The 

Blue  Hen,"  't  was  said, 
While  his  wife  sat  and  wept  by  his  sick 

baby's  bed, 
Had  made  a  false  step,  and  slept  all 

night  alone 
In  the  bed  of  the  river,  instead  of  his 

own. 

Even  poor  "  Ben "  himself  could  not 

drink  of  the  cup 
Of  fire  forever  without  burning  up  ; 


20 


306 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE    CARY. 


He  grew  sick,  fell  to  raving,  declared 

that  he  knew 
No  doctors  could  help  him  ;  and  they 

said  so,  too. 

He  told  those  about  him,  the  ghosts  of 

the  men 
Who  used  in  their  life-times  to  haunt 

k'The  Blue  Hen, 
Had  come  back  each  one  bringing  his 

children  and  wife, 
And  trying  to  frighten  him  out  of  his 

life. 

Now  he  thought  he  was  burning ;  the 

very  next  breath 
He  shivered  and  cried,  he  was  freezing 

to  death  ; 
That  the  peddler  lay  by  him,  who,  long 

years  ago, 
Was  put  out  of  "  The  Blue  Hen,"  and 

died  in  the  snow. 

He  said  that  the  blacksmith  who  turned 

to  a  sot, 
Laid  him  out  on  an  anvil  and  beat  him, 

red-hot ; 
That  the  builder,  who  swallowed  his 

brandy  fourth  proof, 
Was  pitching  him  downward,  head  first, 

from  the  roof. 

At  last  he  grew  frantic  ;  he  clutched  at 
the  sheet, 

And  cried  that  the  miller  had  hold  of 
his  feet ; 

Then  leaped  from  his  bed  with  a  ter 
rible  scream, 

That  the  dead  man  was  dragging  him 
under  the  stream. 

Then  he  ran,  and  so  swift  that  no 
mortal  could  save  ; 

He  went  over  the  bank  and  went  under 
the  wave  ; 

And  his  poor  lifeless  body  next  morn 
ing  was  found 

In  the  very  same  spot  where  the  miller 
was  drowned. 

44  'T  was  n't  liquor  that  killed  him,"  some 
said,  "  that  was  plain  ; 

He  was  crazy,  and  sober  folks  might 
be  insane  !  " 

<;  'T  was  delirium  tremens"  the  cor 
oner  said, 

But  whatever  it  was,  he  was  certainly 
dead! 


THE  KING'S  JEWEL. 

'T  WAS  a  night  to  make  the  bravest 
Shrink  from  the  tempest's  breath, 

For  the  winter  snows  were  bitter, 
And  the  winds  were  cruel  as  death. 

All  day  on  the  roofs  of  Warsaw 
Had  the  white  storm  sifted  down 

Till  it  almost  hid  the  humble  huts 
Of  the  poor,  outside  the  town. 

And  it  beat  upon  one  low  cottage 
With  a  sort  of  reckless  spite 

As  if  to  add  to  their  wretchedness 
Who  sat  by  its  hearth  that  night  ; 

Where  Dorby,  the  Polish  peasant, 
Took  his  pale  wife  by  the  hand, 

And  told  her  that  when  the  morrow 

came 
They  would  have  no  home  in  the  land. 

No  human  hand  would  aid  him 

With  the  rent  that  was  due  at  morn ; 

And  his  cold,  hard-hearted  landlord 
Had  spurned  his  prayers  with  scorn. 

Then  the  poor  man  took  his  Bible, 
And  read,  while  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

To  see  if  any  comfort 

Were  written  there  for  him  ; 

When  he  suddenly  heard  a  knocking 
On  the  casement,  soft  and  light ; 

It  was  n't  the    storm  ;    but  what  else 

could  be 
Abroad  in  such  a  night  ? 

Then  he  went  and  opened  the  window, 
But  for  wonder  scarce  could  speak, 

As  a  bird  flew  in  with  a  jeweled  ring 
Held  flashing  in  his  beak. 

'T  is  the  bird  I  trained,  said  Dorby, 
And  that  is  the  precious  ring, 

That  once  I  saw  on  the  royal  hand 
Of  our  good  and  gracious  King. 

And  if  birds,  as  our  lesson  tells  us, 
Once  came  with  food  to  men, 

Who  knows,  said  the  foolish  peasant, 
But  they  might  be  sent  again  ! 

So  he  hopefully  went  with  the  morn 
ing, 
And  knocked  at  the  palace  gate, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


307 


And  gave  to  the  King  the  jewel 

They  had  searched  for  long  and  late. 

And  when  he  had  heard  the  story 
Which  the  peasant  had  to  tell ; 

He  gave  him  a  fruitful  garden, 
And  a  home  wherein  to  dwell. 

And  Dorby  wrote  o'er  the  doorway 
These  words  that  all  might  see  : 

"  Thou   hast    called    on    the    Lord   in 

trouble, 
And  He  hath  delivered  thee  !  " 


EDGAR'S    WIFE. 

I  KNOW  that  Edgar  's  kind  and  good, 
And  I  know  my  home  is  fine, 

If  I  only  could  live  in  it,  mother, 
And  only  could  make  it  mine. 

You  need  not  look  at  me  and  smile, 
In  such  a  strange,  sad  way  ; 

I  am  not  out  of  my  head  at  all, 
And  I  know  just  what  I  say. 

I  know  that  Edgar  freely  gives 
Whate'er  he  thinks  will  please  ; 

But  it 's  what  we  love   that  brings   us 

good, 
And  my  heart  is  not  in  these. 

Oh,   I  wish  I  could  stand  where  the 
maples 

Drop  their  shadows,  cool  and  dim  ; 
Or  lie  in  the  sweet  red  clover, 

Where  I  walked,  but  not  with  him  ! 

Nay,  you  need  not  mind  me,  mother, 
I  love  him — or  at  the  worst, 

I  try  to  shut  the  past  from  my  heart  ; 
But  you  know  he  was  not  the  first ! 

And  I  strive  to  make  him  feel  my  life 
Is  his,  and  here,  as  I  ought  ; 

But  he  never  can  come  into  the  world 
That  I  live  in,  in  my  thought. 

For  whether  I  wake,  or  whether  I  sleep, 
It  is  always  just  the  same  ; 

I  am  far  away  to  the  time  that  was, 
Or  the  time  that  never  came. 

Sometimes  I  walk  in  the  paradise, 
That,  alas  !  was  not  to  be  ; 

Sometimes  I  sit  the  whole  night  long 
A  child  on  my  father's  knee  ; 


And  when  my  sweet  sad  fancies  run 

Unheeded  as  they  list, 
They  go  and  search  about  to  find 

The  things  my  life  has  missed. 

Aye  !  this  love  is  a  tyrant  always, 
And  whether  for  evil  or  good, 

Neither  comes   nor  goes   for  our  bid 
ding,  — 
But  I  've  done  the  best  I  could. 

And  Edgar 's  a  worthy  man  I  know, 
And  I  know  my  house  is  fine  ; 

But  I  never  shall  live  in  it,  mother, 
And  I  never  shall  make  it  mine  ! 


THE  FICKLE  DAY. 

LAST   night,    when    the    sweet    young 
moon  shone  clear 

In  her  hall  of  starry  splendor, 
I  said  what  a  maiden  loves  to  hear, 

To  a  maiden  true  and  tender. 
She  promised  to  walk  with  me  at  noon, 

In  the  meadow  red  with  clover ; 
And  I  set  her  words  to  a  pleasant  tune, 

And  sang  them  over  and  over. 
So  awake  in  the  early  dawn  I  lay, 

And  heard  the  stir  and  humming 
The   glad   earth    makes  when  her  or 
chestra 

Of  a  thousand  birds  is  coming. 

I  saw  the  waning  lights  in  the  skies 
Blown  out  by  the  breath  of  morn 
ing  5 
And  the  morn  grow  pale  as  a  maid  who 

dies, 

When  her  loving  wins  but  scorn 
ing. 
And  I  said,  the  day  will  never  rise  ; 

On  her  cloudy  couch  she  lingers. 
Still    pressing   the    lids    of  her    sweet 

blue  eyes 

Close  shut  with  her  rosy  fingers. 
But  she  rose  at  last,  and  stood  arrayed 
Like  a  queen  for  a  royal  crowning, 
And    I    thought    her   look   was    never 

made 
For  changing  or  for  frowning. 

But  alas  for  the  dreams  that  round  us 
play  ! 

For  the  plans  of  mortal  making  ! 
And  alas  for  the  false  and  fickle  day 

That  looked  so  fair  at  waking  ! 


308 


THE  POEMS   OF  PIICEBE    GARY. 


For  suddenly  on  the  world  she  frowned, 
Till  the   birds  grew  still   in  their 

places, 
And  the  blossoms  turned  their  eyes  on 

the  ground 

To  hide  their  frightened  faces. 
And  the  light  grew  checkered  where  it 

lay, 

Across  the  hill  and  meadow, 
For  she  hid  her  sunny  hair  away 
Under  a  net  of  shadow. 

And  close  in  the  folds  of  a  cloudy  veil, 

Her  altered  beauty  keeping, 
She  breathed  a  low  and  lonesome  wail, 

And  softly  fell  a-weeping. 
And  now,  my  dream  of  the  time  to  be, 

My  beautiful  dream  is  over  ; 
For  no  maiden  will  walk  at  noon  with 
me 

In  the  meadow  red  with  clover. 
And  within  and  without  I  feel  arid  see 

But  woeful,  weary  weather  ; 
Ah  !  wretched  day  ;  ah  !  wretched  me  — 

We  well  may  weep  together  ! 


THE  MAID   OF   KIRCONNEL. 

FAIR  Kirtle,  hastening  to  the  sea, 

Through  lands  of  sunniest  green, 
But  for  thy  tender  witchery 
"  Fair  Helen  of  Kirconnel  lea," 
A  happier  fate  had  seen. 

And  wood-bower   sweet,  whose   vines 
displayed 

A  royal  wreath  of  flowers  ; 
Why  did  you  lure  the  dreaming  maid, 
So  oft  beneath  your  haunted  shade, 

To  pass  the  charmed  hours  ? 

For  hidden,  like  the  feathery  choir, 

There  from  the  noontide's  glance, 
She  lit  the  heart's  first  vestal  fire, 
And  fed  its  flame  of  soft  desire, 
With  dreams  of  old  romance. 

Poor,  frightened  doe,  that  sought  the 
shade 

Of  that  sequestered  place  ; 
And  led  the  tender,  timid  maid. 
Blushing,  surprised,  and  half  afraid, 

To  meet  the  hunter's  face. 

Not  thine  the  fault,  but  thine  the  deed, 
Blind,  harmless  innocent  ; 


When  to  that  bosom,  doomed  to  bleed, 
With  cruel,  swift,  unerring  speed, 
The  fatal  arrow  went. 

Why  came  no  warning  voice  to  save, 

No  cry  upon  the  blast, 
When  Helen  fair,  and  Fleming  brave, 
Sat  on  the  dead  Kirconnel's  grave, 

And  spake,  and  kissed  their  last  ? 

O  Mary,  gone  in  life's  young  bloom, 

O  "  Mary  of  the  lea," 
Couldst  thou  not   leave  one  hour  the 

tomb, 
To  save  her  from  that  hapless  doom, 

So  soon  to  sleep  by  thee  ? 

Vain,  vain,  to  say  what  might  have  been, 

Or  strive  with  cruel  Fate  ; 
Evil  the  world  hath  entered  in, 
And  sin  is  death,  and  death  is  sin, 
And  love  must  trust  and  wait. 

For  here  the  crown  of  lovers  true 

Still  hides  its  flowers  beneath  — 
The  sharpest  thorns  that  ever  grew, 
The  thorns  that  pierce  us  through  and 

through, 
And  make  us  bleed  to  death  ! 


SAINT   MACARIUS    OF    THE    DES 
ERT. 

GOOD  Saint  Macarius,  full  of  grace, 
And  happy  as  none  but  a  saint  can 

be, 
Abode  in  his  cell,  in  a  desert  place, 

With  only  angels  for  company  ; 
And  fasting  daily  till  vesper  time, 
And  praying  oft  till  the  hour  of  prime  ; 

He  wept  so  freely  for  all  the  sin 
That  ever  had  stained  his  soul  below, 
That,  though  the  hue  of  his  guilt  had 

been 

As    scarlet,  it  must  have  changed  to 
snow. 

The  Tempter  scarce  could  charm  his 

sight 
Who  came  transformed  to  an  angel  of 

light ; 

The  demons  that  pursued  his  track 
He  sent  to  a  fiercer  torment  back  ; 
And  he  wearied,  with  fast  and  penance 

grim, 
The  fiends  that  were  sent  to  weary  him, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


309 


Until  at  last  it  came  about 

That  he  vanquished  the   fiercest  of 

Satan's  brood, 
And  the  powers  of  darkness,  tired  out, 

Had  left  the  anchoret  unsubdued. 

Yet    I    marvel   what   they  could   have 

been 
The    sins    that    he    strove    to    wash 

away  ; 
For  he  had   fled  from  the  haunts  of 

men 

In  the  pure,  sweet  dawn  of  his  man 
hood's  day. 

But  surely  now  they  were  all  forgiven, 
For   alone    in   the   desert,  for   sixty 

years, 
He   had  eat  of  its  scant  herbs    morn 

and  even, 

And    black    bread,    moistened    with 
bitter  tears. 

Yet  so  cunning  and  subtle  is  the  mesh 

For  the  souls  of  the  unwary  laid, 
And    so    strong   is    the   power  of   the 

world  and  flesh, 

That   the,  very  elect  have    been   be 
trayed. 

And  therefore  even  our  holy  saint, 
When  fast  and    penance   and  watch 

were  done, 

Made  often  bitter  and  loucl  complaint 
Of  the  artful  wiles  of  the  Evil  One. 
For  he  found  that  none  may  flee  from 

his  ire, 

Or  find  a  refuge  and  safe  retreat, 
In  the  time  when  Satan  doth  desire 
To   have   and   to  sift   the  soul   like 
wheat. 

Good  Saint  Macarius,  having  passed 
The  long,  hot   hours  of  the  day  in 

prayer, 

Rose  once  an  hungered,  after  a  fast 
That   was  long  for  even  a  saint  to 

bear. 

And  looking  without,  where  the  shad 
ows  fell  — 
'T  was    a   sight    most   rare    in    that 

lonely  place  — 
Just  at  the  door  of  his  humble  cell 

He  saw  a  stranger  face  to  face, 
Who  greeted  him  in  a  tender  tone, 
That   fell   on    his    weary    heart   like 

balm, 
As  graciously  from  out  his  own 

He    dropped    in    the    hermit's    open 
palm 


A  cluster  plucked  from  a  fruitful  vine, 
Ripe  and  ruddy,  and  full  of  wine. 
"Thanks,"    said    the     saint,    for    his 

heart  was  glad, 
"  My   blessing   take  for  a  righteous 

'deed  ; 

'T  is  the  very  gift  I  would  have  had 
For  one   in   his   sore    distress   and 
need." 

Then,  seizing  a  staff  in  his  eager  hand, 
He  hurried  over  the  burning  sand, 
To  a  cell  where  a  holy  brother  lay, 
Wasting  and  dying  day  by  day, 
And  gave,  his  dying  thirst  to  slake, 
The    fruit  't  were  a  sin  for  himself  to 
take. 

Alas  !  the  fainting  hermit  said, 

To  the  holy  brother  who  watched  his 

bed, 

Short  at  the  worst  can  be  my  stay 
In    this    vile    and   wretched    house   of 

clay  ; 

For  my  night  is  almost  done  below, 
And  at  break  of  day  I  must  rise  and 

g°> 

Shall  I  yield  at  last  the  flesh  to  please, 
And  lose  my  soul  for  a  moment's  ease  ? 
Nay,  take  this  gift  to  my  precious  son, 
Whose  weary  journey  is  scarce  begun, 
For  the  burden  of  penance  and  fast 

and  prayer 
Is    a   heavier   thing  for   the   young  to 

bear. 

Therefore  his  sin  were  not  as  mine, 
Though  he  ate  the  pleasant  fruit  of  the 

vine. 

So,  before  another  hour  had  gone, 

The  will  of  the  dying  man  was  done  ; 

And   the  fair   young  monk,  who   had 
come  to  dwell 

For  the  good  of  his  soul  in  a  desert- 
cell, 

Had  bound  the  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  drawn  his  hood  about  his  head, 

And,    bearing    the     cluster    ripe    and 

sweet, 

Was  crossing  the  desert  with  cheer 
ful  tread. 

For  he  said,  'T  were  well  that  an  aged 

saint 
Should  break  his  fast  with  fruits  like 

these  : 

But  I  in  my  vigor  dare  not  taint 
My  soul  with  self-indulgencies. 


3io 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE    CARY. 


And  the  holy  father  whom  I  seek, 

By  praying  and  fasting  oft  and  long, 
I  fear  me  makes  the  flesh  too  weak 
To  keep  the  spirit  brave  and  strong. 

At  the  day-break  Saint  Macarius  rose 

From  his  peaceful   sleep  with   con 
science  clear, 
And  lo  !  the  youngest  monk  of  those 

Who    lived    in    a    desert-cell    drew 

near  ; 
And,  greeting  his  father  in  the  Lord, 

Passed  reverently  the  open  door. 
And  again  the  hermit  had  on  his  board 

The  fruit  untouched  as  it  was  before. 

Then  Saint  Macarius  joyful  raised 
His    thankful    eyes    and    hands    to 

heaven, 
And    cried    aloud:    "The    saints    be 

praised 

That  unto  all  my  sons  was  given 
Such   strength    that,  tempted   as    they 

have  been, 
Not  a  single  soul  hath  yielded  to  sin." 

And  then,  though  he  had  not  broken 

fast, 

The  lure  was  firmly  put  aside  ; 
And  in  the  future,  as  in  the  past, 
A  self-denying  man  to  the  last, 

Good  Saint  Macarius  lived  and  died. 
And  he  never  tasted    the  fruit  of  the 

vine, 
Till   he  went  to  a  righteous   man's 

reward, 
And  took  of   the  heavenly  bread   and 

wine 
New  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord. 


FAIR   ELEANOR. 

WHEN    the    birds    were    mating    and 
building 

To  the  sound  of  a  pleasant  tune, 
Fair  Eleanor  sat  on  the  porch  and  spun 

All  the  long  bright  afternoon. 
She  wound  the  flax  on  the  distaff, 

She  spun  it  fine  and  strong; 
She   sung   as  it    slipped    through    her 
hands,  and  this 

Was  the  burden  of  her  song  : 
"  I  sit  here  spinning,  spinning, 

And  my  heart  beats  joyfully, 
Though  my  lover  is  riding  away  from 
me 

To  his  home  by  the  hills  of  the  sea." 


When  the  shining  skeins  were  finished, 

And  the  loom  its  work  had  done, 
Fair  Eleanor  brought  her  linen  out 

To  spread  on  the  grass  in  the  sun. 
She  sprinkled  it  over  with  water, 

She  turned  and  bleached  it  white  ; 
And  still  she  sung,  and  the  burden 

Was  gay,  as  her  heart  was  light  : 
"  O  sun,  keep  shining,  shining  ! 

0  web,  bleach  white  for  me  ! 
For  sow  my  lover  is  riding  back 

From  his  home  by  the  hills  of  the 
sea." 

When  the  sun,  through  the  leaves  of 

autumn, 

Burned  with  a  dull-red  flame, 
Fair  Eleanor  had  made  the  robes 
To  wear  when  her  lover  came. 
And   she   stood   at  the   open  clothes- 
press, 

And  the  roses  burned  in  her  face, 
As    she    strewed   with   roses    and  lav 
ender 

Her  folded  linen  and  lace  ; 
And  she  murmured  softly,  softly  : 

"  My  bridegroom  draws  near  to  me, 
And  we  shall  ride  back  together 

To   his    home   by   the   hills    of    the 
sea." 

When  the  desolate  clouds  of  winter 

Shrouded  the  face  of  the  sun, 
Then  the  fair,  fair  Eleanor,  wedded, 
Was  dressed  in  the  robes  she  had 

spun. 
But  never  again  in  music 

Did  her  silent  lips  dispart, 
Though  her  lover  came  from  his  home 

by  the  sea, 

And  clasped  her  to  his  heart ; 
Though    he    cried,    as   he   kissed   and 

kissed  her, 
Till    his    sobs    through    the    house 

were  heard  — 

Ah,  she  was  too  happy  where  she  had 
gone, 

1  ween,  to  answer  a  word  ! 


BREAKING  THE  ROADS. 

ABOUT  the  cottage,  cold  and  white. 
The  snow-drifts  heap  the  ground  ; 

Through  its  curtains  closely  drawn  to 
night 
There  scarcely  steals  a  sound. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


The  task  is  done  that  patient  hands 
Through  all  the  day  have  plied  ; 

And  the  flax-wheel,  with  its  loosened 

bands, 
Is  idly  set  aside. 

Above  the  hearth-lire's  pleasant  glare, 
Sings  now  the  streaming  spout ; 

The  housewife,  at  her  evening  care, 
Is  passing  in  and  out. 

And  still  as  here  and  there  she  flits, 
With  cheerful,  bustling  sound, 

Musing,  her  daughter  silent  sits, 
With  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

A  maiden,  womanly  and  true, 
Sweet  as  the  mountain-rose  ; 

No  fairer  form  than  hers  ere  grew 
Amid  the  winter  snows. 

A  rosy  mouth,  and  o'er  her  brow 
Brown,  smoothly-braided  hair, 

Surely  the  youth  beside  her  now 
Must  covet  flower  so  fair. 

For  bashfulness  she  dare  not  meet 
His  eyes  that  keep  their  place, 

So  steadfastly  and  long  in  sweet 
Perusal  of  her  face. 

Herself  is  Lucy's  only  charm, 
To  make  her  prized  or  sought  ; 

And  Ralph  hath  but  the  goodly  farm 
Whereon  his  fathers  wrought. 

He,  with  his  neighbors,  toiling  slow 

To-day  till  sunset's  gleam, 
Breaking    a    road-track    through    the 
snow, 

Has  urged  his  patient  team. 

They  came  at  morn  from  every  home, 
They  have  labored  cheerily  ; 

They    have    cut   a   way   through    the 

snowy  foam, 
As  a  good  ship  cuts  the  sea. 

And  when  his  tired  friends  were  gone, 

Their  pleasant  labors  o'er, 
Ralph  stayed  to  make  a  path,  alone, 

To  Lucy's  cottage-door. 

The    thankful   dame    her   friend    must 
press 

To  share  her  hearth's  warm  blaze  : 
What  could  the  daughter  give  him  less 

Than  words  of  grateful  praise  ? 


And  now  the  board  has  given  its  cheer, 

The  eve  has  nearly  gone, 
Yet  by  the  hearth-fire  bright  and  clear 

The  youth  still  lingers  on. 

The  mother  rouses  from  her  nap; 

Her  task  awhile  she  keeps  ; 
At  last,  with  knitting  on  her  lap, 

Tired  nature  calmly  sleeps. 

Then  Lucy,  bringing  from  the  shelf 
Apples  that  mock  her  cheeks, 

Falls  working  busily  herself, 
And  half  in  whisper  speaks. 

And  Ralph,  for  very  bashfulness, 

Is  held  a  moment  mute  ; 
Then  drawing  near,  he  takes  in  his 

The  hand  that  pares  the  fruit. 

Then  Lucy  strives  to  draw  away 

Her  hand,  yet  kindly  too, 
And  half  in  his  she  lets  it  stay,  — 

She  knows  not  what  to  do. 

"  Darling,"    he    cries,     with     flushing 
cheek, 

"  Forego  awhile  your  task  ; 
Lift  up  your  downcast  eyes  and  speak, 

'T  is  but  a  word  I  ask  !  " 

He  sees  the  color  rise  and  wane 

Upon  the  maiden's  face  ; 
Then  with  a  kiss  he  sets  again 

The  red  rose  in  its  place. 

The  mother  wakes  in  strange  surprise, 
And  wondering  looks  about,  — 

"  How  careless,  Lucy  dear,"  she  cries  ; 
"  You  've  let  the  fire  go  out  !  " 

Then  Lucy  turned  her  face  away, 

She  did  not  even  speak  ; 
But  she  looked  as  if  the  live  coals  lay 

A-burning  in  her  cheek. 

"  Ralph,"  said   the  dame,  "  you   ne'er 

before 

Played  such  a  double  part : 
Have  you   made  the   way  both  to  my 

cloor 
And  to  my  daughter's  heart  ?  " 

"  I  've    tried   my   best,"   cried    happy 
Ralph, 

"  And  if  she  '11  be  my  wife, 
I  '11  make  a  pathway  smooth  and  safe 

For  my  darling  all  her  life  !  " 


312 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


All  winter  from  his  home  to  that 

Where  Lucy  lived  content, 
Along  a  path  made  hard  and  straight, 

Her  lover  came  and  went. 

And    when    spring   smiled  in    all    her 
bowers, 

And  birds  sang  far  and  wide, 
He  trod  a  pathway  through  the  flowers, 

And  led  her  home  a  bride  ! 


THE  CHRISTMAS    SHEAF. 

"  Now,  good-wife,  bring  your  precious 

hoard," 

The  Norland  farmer  cried  ; 
"  And  heap  the  hearth,  and  heap  the 

board, 
For  the  blessed  Christmas-tide. 

"  And  bid  the  children  fetch,"  he  said, 
"  The  last  ripe  sheaf  of  wheat, 

And  set  it  on  the  roof  o'erhead, 
That  the  birds  may  come  and  eat. 

"  And  this  we  do  for  his  dear  sake, 
The  Master  kind  and  good, 

Who,  of  the  loaves  He  blest  and  brake, 
Fed  all  the  multitude." 

Then  Fredrica,  and  Franz,  and  Paul, 
When     they    heard     their     father's 
words, 

Put  up  the  sheaf,  and  one  and  all 
Seemed  merry  as  the  birds. 

Till  suddenly  the  maiden  sighed, 
The  boys  were  hushed  in  fear, 

As,  covering  all  her  face,  she  cried, 
"  If  Hansei  were  but  here  !  " 

And  when,  at  dark,  about  the  hearth 
They  gathered  still  and  slow, 

You  heard  no  more  the  childish  mirth 
So  loud  an  hour  ago. 

And  on  their  tender  cheeks  the  tears 
Shone  in  the  flickering  light ; 

For  they  were  four  in  other  years 
Who  are  but  three  to-night. 

And  tears  are  in  the  mother's  tone  ; 

As  she  speaks,  she  trembles,  too  : 
"  Come,  children,  come,  forthe  supper's 
done, 

And  your  father  waits  for  you." 


Then  Fredrica,  and  Franz,  and  Paul, 
Stood  each  beside  his  chair  ; 

The  boys  were  comely  lads,  and  tall, 
The  girl  was  good  and  fair. 

The  father's  hand  was  raised  to  crave 

A  grace  before  the  meat, 
When  the  daughter  spake  ;  her  words 
were  brave 

But  her  voice  was  low  and  sweet : 

"  Dear    father,    should    we    give    the 
wheat 

To  all  the  birds  of  the  air  ? 
Shall  we  let  the  kite  and  the  raven  eat 

Such  choice  and  dainty  fare  ? 

"  For  if  to-morrow  from  our  store 

We  drive  them  not  away, 
The  good  little  birds  will  get  no  more 

Than  the  evil  birds  of  prey." 

"  Nay,    nay,    my    child,"    he    gravely 
said, 

'•  You  have  spoken  to  your  shame, 
For  the  good,  good  Father  overhead, 

"  Feeds  all  the  birds  the  same. 

"  He  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry, 
He  keeps  the  fowls  of  the  air  ; 

And  a  single  sparrow  cannot  lie 
On  the  ground  without  his  care." 

"  Yea,  father,  yea  ;  and  tell  me  this,"  — 
Her  words  came  fast  and  wild,  — 

"  Are  not  a  thousand  sparrows  less 
To  Him  than  a  single  child  ? 

"  Even  though  it  sinned   and  strayed 
from  home  ?  " 

The  father  groaned  in  pain 
As  she  cried,  "  oh,  let  our  Hansei  come 

And  live  with  us  again  ! 

"  I  know  he  did  what  was  not  right "  — 

Sadly  he  shook  his  head  ; 
"  If  he  knew  I  longed  for  him  to-night, 

He  would  not  come,"  he  said. 

"  He  went  from  me  in  wrath  and  pride  ; 

God  !  shield  him  tenderly  ! 
For  I  hear  the  wild  wind  cry  outside, 

Like  a  soul  in  agony." 

"  Nay,  it  is  a  soul  !  "     Oh,  eagerly 
The  maiden  answered  then  ; 

"  And,  father,  what  if  it  should  be  he, 
Come  back  to  us  a<rain  !  " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


313 


She  stops  —  the  portal  open  flies  ; 

Her  fear  is  turned  to  joy  : 
"  Hansei  !  "  the  startled  father  cries  ; 

And  the  mother  sobs,  "  My  boy  !  " 

'T  is  a  bowed  and  humbled  man  they 

greet, 

With  loving  lips  and  eyes, 
Who  fain  would  kneel  at  his  father's 

feet, 
But  he  softly  bids  him  rise  ; 

And   he  says,  "  I  bless  thee,  O  mine 
own  ; 

Yea,  and  thou*shalt  be  blest  !  " 
While  the  happy  mother  holds  her  son 

Like  a  baby  on  her  breast. 

Their  house  and  love  again  to  share 

The  Prodigal  has  come  ! 
And  now  there  will  be  no  empty  chair, 

Nor  empty  heart  in  their  home. 

And  they  think,  as  they  see  their  joy 

and  pride 

Safe  back  in  the  sheltering  fold, 
Of  the  child  that  was  born  at  Christ 
mas-tide 
In  Bethlehem  of  old. 

And  all  the  hours  glide  swift  away 
With  loving,  hopeful  words, 

Till  the    Christmas  sheaf  at  break  of 

day 
Is  alive  with  happy  birds  ! 


LITTLE  GOTTLIEB. 

A   CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

ACROSS  the  German  Ocean, 
In  a  country  far  from  our  own, 

Once,  a  poor  little  boy,  named  Gottlieb, 
Lived  with  his  mother  alone. 

They  dwelt  in  the  part  of  a  village 
Where  the   houses   were    poor  and 
small, 

But  the  home  oflittle  Gottlieb, 
Was  the  poorest  one  of  all. 

He  was  not  large  enough  to  work, 
And  his  mother  could  do  no  more 

[NOTE.  —  In  Norway  the  last  sheaf  from  the  har 
vest  field  is  never  threshed,  but  it  is  always  reserved 
till  Christmas  Eve,  when  it  is  set  up  on  the  roof  as  a 
feast  for  the  hungry  birds.] 


(Though  she  scarcely  laid  her  knitting 

down) 
Than  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

She  had  to  take  their  threadbare  clothes, 
And  turn,  and  patch,  and  darn  ; 

For  never  any  woman  yet 
Grew  rich  by  knitting  yarn. 

And  oft  at  night,  beside  her  chair, 
Would  Gottlieb  sit,  and  plan 

The  wonderful  things  he  would  do  for 

her, 
When  he  grew  to  be  a  man. 

One  night  she  sat  and  knitted, 
And  Gottlieb  sat  and  dreamed, 

When  a  happy  fancy  all  at  once 
Upon  his  vision  beamed. 

'T  was  only  a  week  till  Christmas, 
And  Gottlieb  knew  that  then 

The  Christ-child,  who  was   born  that 

day, 
Sent  down  good  gifts  to  men. 

But  he  said,  "  He  will  never  find  us, 
Our  home  is  so  mean  and  small. 

And  we,  who  have  most  need  of  them, 
Will  get  no  gifts  at  all." 

When  all  at  once,  a  happy  light 
Came  into  his  eyes  so  blue, 

And  lighted  up  his  face  with  smiles, 
As  he  thought  what  he  could  do. 

Next  day  when  the  postman's  letters 
Came  from  all  over  the  land  ; 

Came  one  for  the  Christ-child,  written 
In  a  child's  poor  trembling  hand. 

You  may  think  he  was  sorely  puzzled 

What  in  the  world  to  do  ; 
So  he  went  to  the  Burgomaster, 

As  the  wisest  man  he  knew. 

And  when  they  opened  the  letter, 
They  stood  almost  dismayed 

That  such  a  little  child  should  dare 
To  ask  the  Lord  for  aid. 

Then  the  Burgomaster  stammered, 
And  scarce  knew  what  to  speak, 

And  hastily  he  brushed  aside 

A  drop,  like  a  tear,  from  his  cheek. 

Then  up  he  spoke  right  gruffly, 
And  turned  himself  about : 


314 


THE  POEMS  OF  PUCE  BE   GARY. 


This  must  be  a  very  foolish  boy, 
And  a  small  one,  too,  no  doubt." 

But  when  six  rosy  children 
That  night  about  him  pressed, 

Poor,  trusting  little  Gottlieb 
Stood  near  him,  with  the  rest. 

And   he   heard    his    simple,    touching 
prayer, 

Through  all  their  noisy  play  ; 
Though  he  tried  his  very  best  to  put 

The  thought  of  him  away. 

A  wise  and  learned  man  was  he, 
Men  called  him  good  and  just  ; 

But  his  wisdom   seemed   like  foolish 
ness, 
By  that  weak  child's  simple  trust. 

Now    when    the    morn    of  Christmas 
came 

And  the  long,  long  week  was  done, 
Poor  Gottlieb,  who  scarce  could  sleep, 

Rose  up  before  the  sun, 

And  hastened  to  his  mother, 

But  he  scarce  might  speak  for  fear, 

When  he  saw  her  wondering  look,  and 

saw 
The  Burgomaster  near. 

He  was  n't  afraid  of  the  Holy  Babe, 
Nor  his  mother,  meek  and  mild  ; 

But  he  felt  as  if  so  great  a  man 
Had  never  been  a  child. 

Amazed  the  poor  child  looked,  to  find 
The  hearth  was  piled  with  wood, 

And  the  table,  never  full  before, 
Was  heaped  with  dainty  food. 

Then    half   to    hide  from    himself   the 

truth 

The  Burgomaster  said, 
While  the  mother  blessed  him  on  her 

knees, 
And  Gottlieb  shook  for  dread  : 

"  Nay,  give  no  thanks,  my  good  dame, 

To  such  as  me  for  aid, 
Be  grateful  to  your  little  son, 

And  the  Lord  to  whom  he  prayed  !  " 

Then  turning  round  to  Gottlieb, 
"Your  written  prayer,  you  see, 

Come  not  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
It  only  came  to  me  ! 


"  'T  was  but  a  foolish  thing  you  did, 

As  you  must  understand  ; 
For   though   the  gifts   are   yours,  you 
know. 

You  have  them  from  my  hand." 

Then  Gottlieb  answered  fearlessly, 
Where  he  humbly  stood  apart, 

"  But  the  Christ-child  sent  them  all  the 

same, 
He  put  the  thought  in  your  heart !  " 


A  MONKISH  LEGEND. 

BEAUTIFUL  stories,  by  tongue  and  pen, 
Are  told  of  holy  women  and  men, 
Who  have   heard,   entranced   in  some 

lonely  cell, 

The  things  not  lawful  for  lip  to  tell  ; 
And  seen,  when  their  souls  were  caught 

away, 
What  they  might  not  say. 

But  one   of  the   sweetest   in   tale   or 

rhyme 

Is  told  of  a  monk  of  the  olden  time, 
Who  read  all  clay  in  his  sacred  nook 
The  words  of  the  good  Saint  Austin's 

book, 
Where  he  tells  of  the  city  of  God,  that 

best 
Last  place  of  rest. 

Sighing,  the  holy  father  said, 
As  he  shut  the  volume  he  had  read  : 
"Methinks  if  heaven  shall  only  be 
A  Sabbath  long  as  eternity, 
Its  bliss  will  at  last  be  a  weary  reign, 
And  its  peace  be  pain." 

So    he   wandered,    musing   under   his 

hood, 

Far  into  the  depths  of  a  solemn  wood  ; 
Where  a  bird  was  singing,  so  soft  and 

clear, 
That    he    paused    and    listened    with 

charmed  ear  ; 

Listened,  nor  knew,  while  thus  intent, 
How  the  moments  went. 

But  the  music  ceased,  and  the  sweet 

spell  broke, 
And   as    if    from    a   guilty   dream    he 

woke, 

That  holy  man,  and  he  cried  aghast, 
*;  Mea  culpa  !  an  hour  has  passed, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


315 


And  I  have  not  counted  my  beads,  nor 

prayed 
To  the  saints  for  aid  !  " 

Then,  amazed  he  fled  ;  but  his  horror 

grew, 
For   the  wood  was   strange,   and    the 

pathway  new  ; 
Yet,  with  trembling   step,  he  hurried 

on, 

Till  at  last  the  open  plain  was  won, 
Where,  grim  and  black,  o'er  the  vale 

around, 
The  convent  frowned. 

"  Holy  Saint  Austin  !  "  cried  the  monk, 
And   down    on    the   ground  for  terror 

sunk  ; 

For  lo  !  the  convent,  tower,  and  cell, 
Sacred  crucifix,  blessed  bell, 
Had  passed  away,  and  in  their  stead, 

Was  a  ruin  spread. 

In  that  hour,  while  the  rapture  held 

him  fast, 

A  century  had  come  and  passed  ; 
And  he  rose  an  altered  man,  and  went 
His    way,   and   knew  what   the  vision 

meant  ; 

For  a  mighty  truth,  till  then  unknown, 
By  that  trance  was  shown. 

And  he  saw  how  the  saints,  with  their 

Lord,  shall  say. 

A  thousand  years  are  but  as  a  day  ; 
Since  bliss  itself  must  grow  from  bliss, 
And  holiness  from  holiness  ; 
And  love,  while  eternity's  ages  move, 
Cannot  tire  of  love  ! 


ARTHUR'S  WIFE. 

I  'M  getting  better,  Miriam,  though  it 
tires  me  yet  to  speak  ; 

And  the  fever,  clinging  to  me,  keeps 
me  spiritless  and  weak, 

And  leaves  me  with  a  headache  always 
when  it  passes  off ; 

But  I  'm  better,  almost  well  at  last,  ex 
cept  this  wretched  cough  ! 

I  should  have  passed  the  livelong  day 
alone  here  but  for  you  ; 

For  Arthur  never  comes  till  night,  he 
has  so  much  to  do  ! 


And  so  sometimes  I  lie  and  think,  till 
my  heart  seems  nigh  to  burst, 

Of  the  hope  that  lit  my  future,  when  I 
I  watched  his  coming  first. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  now  he  does 

not  seem  the  same ; 
Perhaps  my  fancy  is  at  fault,  and  he  is 

not  to  blame  ; 
It  surely  cannot  be  because  he  has  me 

always  near, 
For  I  feared  and  felt  it  long  before  the 

time  he  brought  me  here. 

Yet  still,   I   said,  his  wife  will  charm 

each  shadow  from  his  brow, 
What   can    I    do   to   win  his  love,  or 

prove  my  loving  now  ? 
So    I    waited,    studying    patiently   his 

every  look  and  thought ; 
But  I  fear  that  I  shall  never  learn  to 

please  him  as  I  ought. 

I  've  tried  so  many  ways,  to  smooth  his 

path  where  it  was  rough, 
But  I  always  either  do  too  much,  or  fail 

to  do  enough  ; 
And  at  times,  as  if  it  wearied  him,  he 

pushes  off  my  arm  — 
The  very  things  that  used   to  please 

have  somehow  lost  their  charm. 

Once,  when   I  wore  a  pretty  gown,  a 

gown  he  use  to  praise, 
I  asked  him,  laughing,  if  I  seemed  the 

sweetheart  of  old  days. 
He  did  not  know  the  dress,  and  said, 

he  never  could  have  told, 
'T  was  not  that  unbecoming  one,  which 

made  me  look  so  old  ! 

I  cannot  tell  how  anything  I  do  may 

seems  to  him. 
Sometimes  he  thinks  me  childish,  and 

sometimes  stiff  and  prim  ; 
Yet  you  must  not  think   I   blame  him, 

dear ;    I    could    not  wrong  him 

so  — 
He  is  very  good    to    me,    and    I    am 

happy,  too,  you  know  ! 

But  I  am  often  troublesome,  and  sick 

too  much,  I  fear, 
And    sometimes    let   the    children    cry 

when  he  is  home  to  hear. 
Ah  me  !  if  I   should  leave  them,  with 

no  other  care  than  his  ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  PPICEBE   GARY. 


Yet  he  says  his  love  is  wiser  than  my 
foolish  fondness  is. 

I  think  he  'd  care  about  the  babe.  I 
called  him  Arthur,  too  — 

Hoping  to  please  him  when  I  said,  I 
named  him,  love,  for  you  ! 

He  never  noticed  any  child  of  mine,  ex 
cept  this  one, 

So  the  girls  would  only  have  to  do  as 
they  have  always  done. 

Give  me  my  wrapper,  Miriam.  Help 
me  a  little,  dear  ! 

When  Arthur  comes  home,  vexed  and 
tired,  he  must  not  find  me 
here. 

Why,  I  can  even  go  down-stairs  :  I  al 
ways  make  the  tea. 

He  does  not  like  that  any  one  should 
wait  on  him  but  me. 

He  never  sees  me  lying  down  when  he 

is  home,  you  know, 
And  I  seldom  tell  him  how  I  feel,  he 

hates  to  hear  it  so  ; 
Yet  I  'm   sure  he  grieves  in  secret  at 

the  thought  that  I  may  die, 
Though    he  often   laughs  at   me,  and 

says,    "You're    stronger     now 

than  I." 

Perhaps  there  are  some  men  who  love 

more  than  they  ever  say  : 
He  does  not  show  his  feelings,  but  that 

may  not  be  his  way. 
Why,  how  foolishly  I  'm  talking,  when 

I  know  he  's  good  and  kind  ! 
But  we  women  always  ask  too  much  ; 

more  than  we  ever  find. 

My  slippers,  Miriam  !     No,  not  those  ; 

bring  me  the  easy  pair. 
I  surely  heard  the  door  below  ;   I  hear 

him  on  the  stair  ! 
There  comes  the  old,  sharp  pain  again, 

that  almost  makes  me  frown  ; 
And  it  seems  to  me    I   always   cough 

when  I  try  to  keep  it  down. 

Ah,  Arthur  !  take  this  chair  of  mine  ;  I 

feel  so  well  and  strong  ; 
Besides,  I  am  getting  tired  of  it —  I  've 

sat  here  all  day  long. 
Poor  dear  !  you  work   so  hard  for  me, 

and  I  'm  so  useless,  too  ! 
A    trouble    to    myself,   and,    worse,    a 

trouble  now  to  you. 


GRACIE. 

GRACIE  rises  with  a  light 

In  her  clear  face  like  the  sun, 
Like  the  regal,  crowned  sun 

That  at  morning  meets  her  sight : 
Mirthful,  merry  little  one, 
Happy,  hopeful  little  one  ; 

What  has  made  her  day  so  bright  ? 

Who  her  sweet  thoughts  shall  divine, 

As  she  draweth  water  up, 

Water  from  the  well-spring  up  ? 
What  hath  made  the  draught  so  fine, 

That  she  drinketh  cf  the  cup, 

Of  the  dewy,  dripping  cup, 
As  if  tasting  royal  wine  ? 

Tripping  up  and  down  the  stair, 
Hers  are  pleasant  tasks  to-day, 
Hers  are  easy  tasks  to-day  ; 

Done  without  a  thought  of  care, 

Something  makes  her  work  but  play, 
All  her  work  delightful  play, 

And  the  time  a  holiday. 

And  her  lips  make  melody, 

Like  a  silver-ringing  rill, 

Like  a  laughing,  leaping  rill : 
Then  she  breaks  off  suddenly  ; 

But  her  heart  seems  singing  still, 

Beating  out  its  music  still, 
Though  it  beateth  silently. 

And  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  ; 
Only  to  herself  she  speaks, 
Very  low  and  soft  she  speaks. 

As  she  plants  the  scarlet  pinks, 

Something  plants  them  in  her  cheeks, 
Sets  them  blushing  in  her  cheeks. 

How  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  ! 

To  a  bruised  vine  she  goes  ; 

Tenderly  she  does  her  part, 

Carefully  she  does  her  part, 
As  if,  while  she  bound  the  rose, 

She  were  binding  up  a  heart, 

Binding  up  a  broken  heart. 
Doth  she  think  but  of  the  rose  ? 

Bringing  odorous  leaf  and  flower 
To  her  bird  she  comes  elate, 
Comes  as  one,  with  step  elate, 

Cometh  in  a  happy  hour 
To  a  true  and  tender  mate. 
Doth  she  think  of  such  a  mate  ? 

Is  she  trimming  cage  and  bower  ? 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


317 


How  she  loves  the  flower  she  brings  ! 
See  her  press  her  lips  to  this, 
Press  her  rosy  mouth  to  this, 

In  a  kiss  that  clings  and  clings. 
Hath  the  maiden  learned  that  kiss, 
Learned  that  lingering,  loving  kiss, 

From  such  cold  insensate  things  ? 

What  has  changed  our  pretty  one  ? 
A  new  light  is  in  her  eyes, 
In  her  downcast,  drooping  eyes, 

As  she  walks  beneath  the  moon. 

What  has  waked  those  piteous  sighs, 
Waked  her  touching,  tender  sighs  ? 

Has  love  found  her  out  so  soon  ? 

Even  her  mother  wonderingly 

Saith  :     "  How   strange    our  darling 

seems, 
How  unlike  herself  she  seems." 

And  I  answer  :   "  Oft  we  see 
Women  living  as  in  dreams, 
When  love  comes  into  their  dreams. 

What  if  hers  such  dreaming  be  ?  " 

But  she  says,  undoubtingly  : 
"  Whatsoever  else  it  mtan, 
This  it  surely  cannot  mean. 

Gracie  is  a  babe  to  me, 

Just  a  child  of  scarce  sixteen, 
And  it  seems  but  yestere'en 

That  she  sat.  upon  my  knee." 

Ah  wise  mother  !  if  you  proved 
Lover  never  crossed  her  way, 
I  would  think  the  self-same  way. 

Ever  since  the  world  has  moved, 
Babes  seemed  women  in  a  day  ; 
And,  alas  !  and  weiladay  ! 

Men  have  wooed  and  maidens  loved  ! 


POOR   MARGARET. 

WE  always  called  her  "  poor  Margaret," 
And    spoke   about    her  in   mournful 

phrase  ; 

And  so  she  comes  to  my  memory  yet 
As  she  seemed  to  me  in  my  childish 
days. 

For  in  that  which  changing,  waxeth  old, 
In  things  which  perish,  we  saw  her 

poor, 

But  we  never  saw  the  wealth  untold, 
She  kept  where  treasures  alone  en 
dure. 


We   saw  her  wrinkled,  and  pale,  and 

thin. 
And  bowed  with  toil,  but  we  could 

not  see 
That    her   patient  spirit  grew  straight 

within, 
In  the  power  of  its  upright  purity. 

Over  and  over,  every  day, 

Bleaching  her  linen  in  sun  and  rain, 
We  saw  her  turn  it  until  it  lay 

As  white  on  the  grass  as  the  snow 
had  lain  ; 

But  we  could  not  see  how  her  Father's 

smile, 

Shining  over  her  spirit  there, 
Was  whitening  for  her  all  the  while 
The    spotless    raiment    his     people 
wear. 

She   crimped  and  folded,  smooth  and 

nice, 
All   our   sister's   clothes,  when   she 

came  to  wed,  — 

(Alas  !  that  she  only  wore  them  twice, 
Once  when   living,  and   once  when 
dead  !) 

And  we  said,  she  can  have  no  wedding- 
day  ; 
Speaking     sorrowfully,     under     our 

breath  ; 
While  her  thoughts  were  all  where  they 

give  away 

No    brides    to    lovers,  and    none    to 
death. 

Poor  Margaret  !  she  sleeps  now  under 

the  sod, 
And  the  ills  of  her  mortal  life  are 

past ; 
But  heir  with  her  Saviour,  and  heir  of 

God, 

She  is  rich  in  her  Father's  House  at 
last. 


LADY   MARJORY. 

THE  Lady  Marjory  lay  on  her  bed, 
Though    the    clock    had    struck    the 

hour  of  noon, 
And  her  cheek  on  the  pillow  burned  as 

red 

As  the  bleeding  heart  of  a  rose  in 
June  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Like    the    shimmer    and    gleam  of    a 

golden  mist 

Shone  her  yellow  hair  in  the  cham 
ber  dim  ; 

And  a  fairer  hand  was  never  kissed 
Than  hers,  with  its  ringers  white  and 
slim. 

She  spake  to  her  women,  suddenly,  — 
"  I  have  lain  here  long  enough,"  she 

said  ; 

"  Lain  here  a  year,  by  night  and  day, 
And  I  hate  the  pillow,  and  hate  the 

bed. 
So  carry  me  where  I  used  to  sit, 

I  am  not  much  for  your  arms  to  hold  ; 
Strange    phantoms    now   through    my 

fancy  flit, 

And  my  head  is  hot  and  my  feet  are 
cold  !  " 

They  sat  her  up  once  more  in  her  chair, 
And   Alice,   behind   her,   grew   pale 

with  dread 
As  she  combed  and  combed  her  lady's 

hair, 

For  the  fever  never  left  her  head. 
And  before  her.  Rose  on  a  humble  seat 
Sat,    but   her    young  face  wore   no 

smile, 
As  she  held  in  her  lap  her  mistress' 

feet 

And   chafed   them   tenderly  all   the 
while. 

"  Once  I  saw,"  said  the  lady,  "a  saintly 

nun, 
Who    turned   from   the  world   and   its 

pleasures  vain  ;  — 
When  they  clipped  her  tresses,  one  by 

one, 
How  it  must  have  eased  her  aching 

brain  ! 
If  it  ached  and  burned  as  mine  does 

now, 
And  they  cooled  it  thus,  it  was  worth 

the  price  ;  — 

Good  Alice,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow, 
For  my  head  is  fire  and  my  feet  are 

ice  !  " 

So  the  patient  Alice  stood  in  her  place 
For  hours  behind  her  mistress' chair, 

Bathing  her  fevered  brow  and  face, 
Parting  and  combing  her  golden  hair : 

And    Rose,    whose    cheek    belied   her 

name, 
Sitting  before  her,  awed  and  still, 


Kept  at  her  hopeless  task  the  same 
Till  she  felt,  through  all  her  frame, 
the  chill. 

"  How  my  thoughts,"   the  Lady  Mar 
jory  said, 
"  Go    slipping    into    the   past   once 

more  ; 
As  the   beads  we  are   stringing  slide 

down  a  thread, 
When  we   drop  the   end  along   the 

floor  : 
Only  a  moment  past,  they  slid 

Thus    into    the   old    time,    dim   and 

sweet ; 
I  was  where  the  honeysuckles  hid 

My  head  and  the  daisies  hid  my  feet. 
I  heard  my  Philip's  step  again, 

I   felt  the  thrill  of   his   kiss  on  my 

brow  ; 
Ah  !    my   cheek   was    not   so    crimson 

then, 

Nor  my  feet  in  the  daisies  cold  as 
now ! 

"  Dizzily  still  my  senses  swim, 

I  am  far  away  in  a  fairy  land  ; 
To  the  night  when  first  I  danced  with 

him, 
And  felt  his  look,  as  he  touched  my 

hand  ; 
Then  my  cheeks  were  bright  with  the 

flush  and  glow 
Of  the  joy  that  made  the  hours  so 

fleet ; 
And  my  feet  were  rosy  with  warmth  I 

know, 
As  time  to  the  music  they  lightly  beat. 

"  'T  is  strange  how  the  things   I   re 
member,  seem 

Blended  together,  and  nothing  plain; 
A  dream  is  like  truth,  and  truth  like  a 

dream, 

With  this  terrible  fever  in  my  brain. 
But  of  all  the  visions  that  ever  I  had, 
There  is  one  returns  to  plague  me 

most  ; 
If  it  were  not  false  it  would  drive  me 

mad, 
Haunting  me  thus,  like  an  evil  ghost. 

"It  came  to  me  first  a  year  ago, 

Though  I  never  have  told  a  soul  be 
fore, 
But    I    dreamed,   in   the   dead   of  the 

night,  you  know, 
That  under  the  vines  beside  the  door, 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


I  watched  for  a  step  I  did  not  hear, 
Stayed  for  a  kiss  I  did  not  feel  ; 
But  I  heard  a  something  hiss  in  my  ear 
Words  that  I  shudder  still  to  reveal. 
I  made  no  sound,  and  I  gave  no  start, 
But  I  stood  as  the  dead  on  the  sea- 
floor  stand, 
While  the  demon's  words  fell  slow  on 

my  heart 

As  burning  drops  from  a  torturer's 
hand. 

"' Your  Philip  stays,'  it  said,  'to-night, 
Where    dark    eyes    hold    him   with 

magic  spell  ; 
Eyes  from  the  stars  that  caught  their 

light, 
Not  from  some  pretty  blue  flower's 

bell! 

With  raven  tresses  he  waits  to  play, 
They  have  bound  him  fast  as  a  bird 

in  a  snare, 
Did  you  think  to  hold  him  more  than  a 

clay 

In  the'  feeble  mesh  of   your  yellow 
hair? 

" ;  Flowers   or  pearls    in    your  tresses 

twist, 
As   your   fancy  suits  you,  smile    or 

sigh  ; 
Or  give  your  dainty  hand  to  be  kissed 

By  other  lips,  and  he  will  not  die  : 
Hide  your  eyes  in  the  veil  of  a  nun, 
Weep  till  the  rose  in  your  cheek  is 

dim  ; 
Or  turn  to  any  beneath  the  sun, 

Henceforth    it    is    all    the    same    to 
him!' 

"  This  was  before  I  took  my  bed  ;  — 

Do  you  think  a  dream  could   make 

me  ill, 
Could  put  a  fever  in  my  head, 

And  touch  my  feet  with  an  icy  chill  ? 
Yet  I  've  hardly  been  myself  I  know 

At  times   since   then,  for  before  my 

eyes 
The  wildest  visions  come  and  go, 

Full  of  all  wicked  and  cruel  lies. 

"  Once  the  peal  of  marriage-bells,  with 
out, 

Fell,  or  seemed  to  fall  on  my  ear ; 
And   I  thought  you   went,   and    softly 

shut 

The  window,   so    that    I    might   not 
hear  ; 


That  you  turned  from  my  eager  look 

away, 
And    sadly  bent   your  eyes    on    the 

ground, 

As  if  you  said,  'tis  his  wedding-day, 
And  her  heart  will  break  if  she  hears 
the  sound. 

"And    dreaming    once,    I    dreamed    I 

woke, 
And    heard    you   whisper,    close    at 

hand, 

Men  said,  Sir  Philip's  heart  was  broke, 
Since  he  gave  himself  for  his  wife's 

broad  land ; 
That  he  smiled  on  none,  but  frowned 

instead, 
As  he  stalked  through  his  halls,  like 

a  ghost  forlorn  ; 
And   the   nurse  who  had  held  him,  a 

baby,  said, 

He  had  better  have  died  in  the  day 
he  was  born  !  " 

So,  till  the  low  sun,  fading,  cast 

Across  her  chamber  his  dying  beams, 
The  Lady  Marjory  lived  in  the  past. 

Telling  her  women  of  all  her  dreams. 
Then  she   changed  ;  —  "  I    am  almost 

well,"  she  said, 

"  I  feel  so  strangly  free  from  pain  ; 
Oh,  if  only  the  fever  would  leave  my 

head, 

And  if  only  my  feet  were  warm  again  ! 
And  something  whispers  me,  clear  and 

low, 

I  shall  soon  be  done  with  lying  there, 
So  to-morrow,  when  I  am  better,  you 

know, 

You    must   come,   good   Alice,   and 
dress  my  hair. 

"  We  will  give  Sir  Philip  a  glad  sur 
prise, 
He  will  come,  I  know,  at  morn  or 

night ; 
And  I  want  the  help  of  your  hands  and 

eyes 

To  dress  me  daintily  all  in  white  ; 
Bring  snowy  lilies  for  my  hair  ;  — 

And,  Rose,  when  all  the  rest  is  done, 
Take  from  my  satin  slippers  the  pair 
That  are  softest  and  whitest,  and  put 

them  on. 
But  take  me  to  bed  now,  where  in  the 

past 

You   have   placed  me  many  a  time 
and  oft ; 


320 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


I  am  so  tired,  I  think  at  last 

I  shall  sleep,  if  the  pillow  is  cool  and 
soft." 

So  the  patient  Alice  took  her  head, 
And  the  sweet  Rose  took  her  mis 
tress'  feet, 

And  they  laid  her  tenderly  on  the  bed, 
And      smoothed     the     pillow,     and 

smoothed  the  sheet. 
Then  she  wearily  closed  her  eyes,  they 

say, 
On    this  world,  with   all   its    sorrow 

and  sin  ; 
And    her  head    and   her   heart  at  the 

break  of  day, 

Were  as  cold  as  ever  her  feet  had 
been  ! 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  DARLING. 

So  I  'm  "  crazy,"    in  loving  a  man  of 

three-score  ; 
Why,  I  never  had  come  to  my  senses 

before, 
But  I  'm  doubtful  of  yours,  if  your  're 

thinking  to  prove 
My  insanity,  just  by  the  fact  of  my  love. 

You  would  like  to  know  what  are  his 
wonderful  wiles  ? 

Only  delicate  praises,  and  flattering 
smiles  ! 

'T  is  no  spell  of  enchantment,  no  magi 
cal  art, 

But  the  way  he  says  "darling,"  that 
goes  to  my  heart. 

Yes,  he 's    "  sixty,"    I    cannot  dispute 

with  you  there, 
But    you  'd    make   him   a   hundred,    I 

think,  if  you  dare  ; 
And  I  'm  glad  all  his  folly  of  first  love 

is  past, 
Since  I  'm  sure,  of  the  two,  it  is  best  to 

be  last. 

'"His  hair  is  as  white  as  the  snow 
drift,"  you  say  ; 

Then  I  never  shall  see  it  change  slowly 
to  gray ; 

But  I  almost  could  wish,  for  his  dear 
sake  alone, 

That  my  tresses  were  nearer  the  hue 
of  his  own. 


"  He  can't  see  ; "  then  I  '11  help  him  to 
see  and  to  hear, 

If  it 's  needful,  you  know,  I  can  sit  very 
near  ; 

And  he  's  young  enough  yet  to  inter 
pret  the  tone 

Of  a  heart  that  is  beating  up  close  to 
his  own. 

I  "  must  aid  him  ; "  ah  !  that  is  my 
pleasure  and  pride, 

I  should  love  him  for  this  if  for  noth 
ing  beside  ; 

And  though  I  've  more  reasons  than  I 
can  recall, 

Yet  the  one  that  "he  needs  me"  is 
strongest  of  all. 

So,  if  I  'm  insane,  you  will  own,  I  am 

sure, 
That  the  case  is  so  hopeless  it 's  past 

any  cure  ; 
And,  besides,  it  is  acting  no  very  wise 

part, 
To  be  treating  the  head  for  disease  of 

the  heart. 

And  if  anything  could  make  a  woman 
believe 

That  no  dream  can  delude,  and  no 
fancy  deceive  ; 

That  she  never  knew  lover's  enchant 
ment  before, 

It 's  being  the  darling  of  one  of  three 
score  ! 


A   TENT   SCENE. 

OUR  generals   sat    in   their    tent  one 
night, 

On  the  Mississippi's  banks, 
Where  Vicksburg  sullenly  still  held  out 

Against  the  assaulting  ranks. 

They  could   hear   the   firing    as    they 

talked, 

Long  after  set  of  sun  ; 
And  the  blended  noise  of  a  thousand 

guns 
In  the  distance  seemed  as  one. 

All   at   once    Sherman   started   to  his 
feet, 

And  listened  to  the  roar, 
His  practiced  ear  had  caught  a  sound, 

That  he  had  not  heard  before. 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


321 


"They  have  mounted  another  gun  on 
the  walls  ; 

'Tis  new,"  he  said,  "  I  know  ; 
I  can  tell  the  voice  of  a  gun,  as  a  man 

Can  tell  the  voice  of  his  foe  ! 

"What  !  not  a  soul  of  you  hears  but 

me  ? 

No  matter,  I  am  right  ; 
Bring  me  my  horse  !     I    must  silence 

this 
Before  I  sleep  to-night !  " 

He  was  gone  ;  and  they  listened  to  the 

ring 

Of  hoofs  on  the  distant  track  ; 
Then    talked     and    wondered     for    a 

while,  — 
In  an  hour  he  was  back. 

"  Well,  General  !  what  is  the  news  ?  " 

they  cried, 

As  he  entered  flush  and  worn  ; 
"  We  have  picked  their  gunners  off,  and 

the  gun 
Will  be  dislodged  at  morn  !  » 


THE  LADY  JAQUELINE. 

I 

"  FALSE  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet, 

I  care  not  for  the  rest, 
The  lover  that  knelt  last  night  at  my 

feet 

Was  the  bravest  and  the  best. 
Let  them  perish  all,  for  their  power  has 

waned, 

And  their  glory  waxed  dim  ; 
They   were    well    enough    while    they 

lived  and  reigned, 
But  never  was  one  like  him  ! 
And  never  one  from  the  past  would  I 

bring 

Again,  and  call  him  mine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King!  " 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  In  the  old,  old  days,  when  life  was 
new, 

And  the  world  upon  me  smiled, 
A  pretty,  dainty  lover  I  had, 

Whom   I  loved  with  the  heart  of  a 

child. 
When  the  buried  sun  of  yesterday 

Comes  back  from  the  shadows  dim, 
Then  may  his  love  return  to  me, 

And  the  love  I  had  for  him  ! 


But  since  to-day  hath  a  better  thing 
To  give,  I  '11  ne'er  repine  ;  — 

The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  And  yet  it  almost  makes  me  weep, 

Aye  !  weep,  and  cry,  alas  ! 
When  I  think  of  one  who  lies  asleep 

Down  under  the  quiet  grass. 
For   he   loved   me   well,   and    I   loved 
again, 

And  low  in  homage  bent, 
And  prayed  for  his  long  and  prosper 
ous  reign, 

In  our  realm  of  sweet  content. 
But   not   to   the   dead  may  the  living 
cling, 

Nor  kneel  at  an  empty  shrine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  Once,  caught  by  the  sheen  of  stars 
and  lace, 

I  bowed  for  a  single  day, 
To  a  poor  pretender,  mean  and  base, 

Unfit  for  place  or  sway. 
That  must  have   been   the  work  of  a 
spell, 

For  the  foolish  glamour  fled, 
As   the   sceptre  from   his  weak  hand 
fell, 

And  the  crown  from  his  feeble  head  ; 
But  homage  true  at  last  I  bring 

To  this  rightful  lord  of  mine,  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  By  the  hand  of  one  I  held  most  dear, 

And  called  my  liege,  my  own  ! 
I  was  set  aside  in  a  single  year, 

And  a  new  queen  shares  his  throne. 
To   him  who  is  false,  and  him  who  is 
wed, 

Shall  I  give  my  fealty  ? 
Nay,  the  dead  one  is  not  half  so  dead 

As  the  false  one  is  to  me  ! 
My  faith  to  the  faithful  now  I  bring, 

The  faithless  I  resign  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  Yea,  all   my  lovers   and   kings   that 
were 

Are  dead,  and  hid  away, 
In  the  past,  as  in  a  sepulchre, 

Shut  up  till  the  judgment  day. 
False  or  fickle,  or  weak  or  wed, 

They  are  all  alike  to  me  ; 


322 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


And  mine  eyes  no  more    can  be  mis 
led,  - 

They  have  looked  on  royalty  ! 
Then    bring   me    wine,    and    garlands 

bring 

For  my  king  of  the  right  divine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 


THE   WIFE'S   CHRISTMAS. 

How  can  you  speak  to  me  so,  Charlie  ! 

It  is  n't  kind,  nor  right ; 
You  would  n't  have  talked  a  year  ago, 

As  you  have  done  to-night. 

You  are  sorry  to  see  me  sit  and  cry, 
Like  a  baby  vexed,  you  say  ; 

When  you   did  n't  know    I  wanted   a 

gift, 
Nor  think  about  the  day  ! 

But  I  'm  not  like  a  baby,  Charlie, 

Crying  for  something  fine  ; 
Only  a  loving  woman  pained, 

Could  shed  such  tears  as  mine. 

For  every  Christmas  time  till  now  — 

And  that  is  why  I  grieve  — 
It  was  you  that  wanted  to  give,  Charlie, 

More  than  I  to  receive. 

And  all  I  ever  had  from  you 

I  have  carefully  laid  aside  ; 
From  the  first  June  rose  you  pulled  for 
me, 

To  the  veil  I  wore  as  a  bride. 

And   I  wouldn't  have  cared  to-night, 

Charlie, 

How  poor  the  gift  or  small  ; 
If  you  only  had  brought  me  something 

to  show 
That  you  thought  of  me  at  all. 

The  merest  trifle  of  any  kind, 
That  I  could  keep  or  wear  ; 

A  flimsy  bit  of  lace  for  my  neck, 
Or  a  ribbon  for  my  hair. 

Some  pretty  story  of  lovers  true, 
Or  a  book  of  pleasant  rhyme  ; 

A  flower,  or  a  holly  branch,  to  mark 
The  blessed  Christmas  time. 

But  to  be  forgotten,  Charlie  ! 
'T  is  that  that  brings  the  tear ; 


And  just  to  think,  that  I  have  n't  been 
Your  wife  but  a  single  year  ! 


COMING   ROUND. 

'T  is  all  right,  as  I  knew  it  would  be 
by  and  by  ; 

We  have  kissed  and  made  up  again, 
Archie  and  I  ; 

And  that  quarrel,  or  nonsense,  what 
ever  you  will, 

I  think  makes  us  love  more  devotedly 
still. 

The  trouble  was  all  upon  my  side,  you 
know  ; 

I  'm  exacting  sometimes,  rather  fool 
ishly  so  ; 

And  let  any  one  tell  me  the  veriest  lie 

About  Archie,  I  'm  sure  to  get  angry 
and  cry. 

Things    will   go  on  between  us  again 

just  the  same,  — 
For  as  he  explains  matters  he  was  n't 

to  blame ; 
But  'tis    useless    to  tell   you;   I  can't 

make  you  see 
How  it  was,  quite  as  plainly  as  he  has 

made  me. 

You  thought  "  I  would  make  him  come 

round  when  we  met  !  " 
You    thought    "  there  were    slights    I 

could  never  forget  !  " 
Oh  you  did  !  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear, 

to  your  face, 
That     your     thinking     these     things 

does  n't  alter  the  case  ! 

You  "can  tell  what  I  said?"    I  don't 

wish  you  to  tell ! 
You  know  what  a  temper  I  have,  very 

well ; 
That    I  'm    sometimes    unjust   to    my 

friends  who  are  best ; 
But/0w  've  turned  against  Archie  the 

same  as  the  rest !  • 

"  Why  has  n't  he  written  ?   what  kept 

him  so  still?"  — 
His  silence  was  sorely  against  his  own 

will  ; 
He  has  faults,  that  I  own  ;  but  he,  he 

would  n't  deceive  ; 
He  was  ill,  or  was  busy,  —  was  both, 

I  believe  ! 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 
I  s'pose  I 


323 


Did  he  flirt  with  that  lady  ? 

should  say, 
Why,  yes,  —  when    she    threw  herself 

right  in  the  way  ; 
He  was  led  off,  was  foolish,  but  that  is 

the  worst,  — 
And  she  was  to  blame  for  it  all,  from 

the  first. 

And  he  's  so  glad  to  come  back  again, 

and  to  find 
A  woman  once  more  with  a  heart  and 

a  mind  ; 
For   though   others    may   please    and 

amuse  for  an  hour, 
I  hold  all  his  future  —  his  life  —  in  my 

power  ! 

And  now,  if  things  don't  go  persist 
ently  wrong, 

Our  destinies  cannot  be  parted  for 
long; 

For  he  said  he  would  give  me  his  for 
tune  and  name,  — 

Not  those  words,  but  he  told  me  what 
meant  just  the  same. 

So  what  could  I  do,  after  all,  at  the 

last, 
But  just  ask  him  to  pardon  my  doubts 

in  the  past  ; 
For   though    he   had     been    wrong,    I 

should  still,  all  the  same, 
Rather  take  it  myself  than  let  him  bear 

the  blame. 

And,  poor  fellow  !  he  felt  so  bad,  I 
could  not  bear 

To  drive  him  by  cruelty  quite  to  de 
spair  ; 

And  so,  to  confess  the  whole  truth, 
when  I  found 

He  was  willing  to  do  so  himself,  /  came 
round  ! 


THE  LAMP  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

THE  grass  lies  flat  beneath  the  wind 
That  is  loosed  in  its  angry  might, 

Where  a  man  is  wandering,  faint  and 

blind, 
On  the  prairie,  lost  at  night. 

No  soft,  sweet  light  of  moon  or  star, 
No  sound  but  the  tempest's  tramp ; 

When  suddenly  he  sees  afar 
The  flame  of  a  friendly  lamp  ! 


And  hope  revives  his  failing  strength, 
He  struggles  on,  succeeds,  — 

He  nears  a  humble  roof  at  length, 
And  loud  for  its  shelter  pleads. 

And  a  voice  replies,  "  Whoever  you  be 
That  knock  so  loud  at  my  door, 

Come  in,  come  in  !  and  bide  with'  me 
Till  this  dreadful  storm  is  o'er. 

"And  no  wilder,  fiercer  time  in  March 
Have  I  seen  since  I  was  born  ; 

If  a  wolf  for  shelter  sought  my  porch 
To-night,  he  might  lie  till  morn." 

As  he  enters,   there  meets  the  stran 
ger's  gaze 

One  bowed  by  many  a  year,  — 
A  woman,  alone  by  the  hearth's  bright 

blaze, 
Tending  her  lamp  anear. 

"  Right  glad  will  I  come,"  he  said,  "  for 

the  sweep 

Of  the  wind  is  keen  and  strong  ; 
But  tell  me,  good  neighbor,  why  you 

keep 
Your  fire  ablaze  so  long  ? 

"  You  dwell  so  far  from  the  beaten  way 
It  might  burn  for  many  a  night ; 

And  only  belated  men,  astray, 
Would  ever  see  the  light." 

"  Aye,  aye,  't  is  true  as  you  have  said, 
But  few  this  way  have  crossed  ; 

But  why  should   not  fires  be  lit   and 

fed 
For  the  sake  of  men  who  are  lost  ? 

"There  are  women   enough    to   smile 

when  they  come, 
Enough  to  watch  and  pray 
For  those  who  never  were  lost  from 

home, 
And  never  were  out  of  the  way. 

"  And  hard  it  were  if  there  were  not 

some 

To  love  and  welcome  back 
The  poor  misguided  souls  who   have 

gone 
Aside  from  the  beaten  track. 

"  And  if  a  clear  and  steady  light 
In  my  home  had  always  shone, 

My  own  good  boy  had  sat  to-night 
By  the  hearth,  where  I  sit  alone. 


324 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


"  But  alas  !  there  was  no  faintest  spark 
The    night    when    he   should    have 

come  ; 
And  what  had  he,  when  the  pane  was 

dark, 
To  guide  his  footsteps  home  ? 

"  But  since,  each  night  that  comes  and 

goes, 

My  beacon  fires  I  burn  ; 
For  no  one  knows  but  he  lives,  nor 

knows 
The  time  when  he  may  return  !  " 

"  And  a  lonesome  life  you  must  have 

had, 

Good  neighbor,  but  tell  me,  pray, 
How  old  when  he  went  was  your  little 

lad? 
And  how  long  has  he  been  away  ?  " 

"  'T  is  thirty  years,  by  my  reckoning, 
Since  he  sat  here  last  with  me  ; 

And  he  was  but  twenty  in  the  spring,  — 
He  was  only  a  boy,  you  see  ! 

*'  And  though  never  yet  has  my  fire 
been  low, 

Nor  my  lamp  in  the  window  dim, 
It  seems  not  long  to  be  waiting  so, 

Nor  much  to  do  for  him  ! 

"  And  if  mine  eyes  may  see  the  lad 
But  in  death,  't  is  enough  of  joy  ; 

What  mother  on  earth  would  not  be 

glad 
To  wait  for  such  a  boy  ! 

"  You  think  't  is  long  to  watch  at  home, 
Talking  with  fear  and  doubt ! 

But  long  is  the  time  that  a  son  may 

roam 
Ere  he  tire  his  mother  out ! 

"  And  if  you   had  seen  my  good   boy 

g°> 

As  I  saw  him  go  from  home, 
With  a  promise  to  come  at  night,  you 

would  know 
That,   some   good   night,    he   would 

come." 

"  But  suppose  he  perished  where  never 

pass 

E'en  the  feet  of  the  hunter  bold, 
His  bones  might  bleach  in  the  prairie 

grass 
Unseen  till  the  world  is  old  ! " 


"  Aye,  he  might  have  died  :  you  answer 

well 

And  truly,  friend,  he  might  ; 
And  this  good  old  earth  on  which  we 

dwell 
Might  come  to  an  end  to-night ! 

"  But  I  know  that  here  in  its  place,  in 
stead, 

It  will  firm  and  fast  remain  ; 
And  I  know  that  my  son,  alive  or  dead, 

Will  return  to  me  again  ! 

"  So  your  idle  fancies  have  no  power 

To  move  me  or  appall  ; 
He  is  likelier  now  to  come  in  an  hour 

Than  never  to  come  at  all  ! 

"  And  he  shall  find  me  watching  yet, 

Return  whenever  he  may  ; 
My  house  has  been  in  order  set 

For  his  coming  many  a  day. 

"  You  were  rightly  shamed  if  his  young 

feet  crossed 

That  threshold  stone  to-night, 
For  your  foolish  words,  that  he  might 

be  lost, 
And  his  bones  be  hid  from  sight  ! 

"  And   oh,    if  I    heard    his   light   step 

fall, 

Tf  I  saw  him  at  night  or  morn 
Far  off,    I  should  know  my  son  from 

all 
The  sons  that  ever  were  born. 

"  And,  hark  !  there  is  something  strange 

about, 

For  my  dull  old  blood  is  stirred  : 
That  was  n't  the  feet  of  the  storm  with 
out, 
Nor  the  voice  of  the  storm  I  heard  ! 

"  It  was  but  the  wind  !  nay,  friend,  be 

still, 
Do  you  think  that  the  night  wind's 

breath 
Through    my  very  soul  could  send  a 

thrill 
Like  the  blast  of  the  angel,  Death  ? 

"  'T  is  my  boy  !  he  is  coming  home,  he 

is  near 

Or  I  could  not  hear  him  pass  ; 
For  his  step  is  as  light  as  the  step  of 

the  deer 
On  the  velvet  prairie  grass. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


325 


"  How   the   tempest    roars !    how   my 

cabin  rocks  ! 

Yet  I  hear  him  through  the  din  ; 
Lo  !  he  stands  without  the  door  —  he 

knocks  — 
I  must  rise  and  let  him  in  !  " 

She  rose,  she  stood  erect,  serene  ; 

She  swiftly  crossed  the  floor  ; 
And  the  hand  of  the  wind,  or  a  hand 
unseen, 

Threw  open  wide  the  door. 


Through  the  portal  rushed   the   cruel 

blast, 

With  a  wail  on  its  awful  swell ; 
As  she  cried,  "  My  boy,  you  have  come 

at  last !  " 
And  prone  o'er  the  threshold  fell. 

And  the  stranger  heard  no  other  sound, 

And  saw  no  form  appear ; 
But   whoever    came   at   the    midnight 
found 

Her  lamp  was  burning  clear  ! 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


A  WEARY    HEART. 

YE  winds,  that  talk  among  the  pines, 
In  pity  whisper  soft  and  low  ; 

And  from  my  trailing  garden  vines, 
Bear  the  faint  odors  as  ye  go  ; 

Take  fragrance  from  the  orchard  trees, 
From  the  meek  violet  in  the  dell  ; 

Gather  the  honey  that  the  bees 
Had  left  you  in  the  lily's  bell  ; 

Pass  tenderly  as  lovers  pass, 

Stoop    to    the    clover-blooms    your 

wings, 
Find  out  the  daisies  in  the  grass, 

The  sweets  of  all  insensate  things  ; 

With  muffled  feet,  o'er  beds  of  flowers, 
Go  through  the  valley  to  the  height, 

Where  frowning  walls  and  lofty  towers 
Shut  in  a  weary  heart  to-night  ; 

Go  comfort  her,  who  fain  would  give 
Her  wealth  below,  her  hopes  above, 

For  the  wild  freedom  that  ye  have 
To  kiss  the  humblest  flower  ye  love  ! 


COMING    HOME. 

O  BROTHERS  and  sisters,  growing  old, 

Do  you  all  remember  yet 
That  home,  in  the  shade  of   the  rus 
tling  trees, 

Where  once  our  household  met  ? 

Do  you  know  how  we  used  to  come 
from  school, 

Through  the  summer's  pleasant  heat ; 
With  the  yellow  fennel's  golden  dust 

On  our  tired  little  feet  ? 


And  how  sometimes  in  an  idle  mood 

We  loitered  by  the  way  ; 
And  stopped  in   the  woods  to  gather 
flowers 

And  in  the  fields  to  play  ; 

Till  warned  by  the  deep'ning  shadow's 

fall, 

That  told  of  the  coming  night, 
We  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  last,  long 

hill, 
And  saw  our  home  in  sight  ! 

And,  brothers  and  sisters,  older  now 
Than  she  whose  life  is  o'er, 

Do  you   think  of  the  mother's  loving 

face, 
That  looked  from  the  open  door  ? 

Alas,     for    the     changing     things    of 

time  ; 

That  home  in  the  dust  is  low  ; 
And   that  loving  smile  was  hid  from 

us, 
In  the  darkness,  long  ago  ! 

And  we  have  come  to  life's  last  hill, 
From  which  our  weary  eyes 

Can   almost    look   on    the   home   that 

shines 
Eternal  in  the  skies. 

So,  brothers  and  sisters,  as  we  go, 

Still  let  us  move  as  one, 
Always  together  keeping  step, 

Till  the  march  of  life  is  done. 

For   that   mother,   who  waited  for  us 
here, 

Wearing  a  smile  so  sweet, 
Now  waits  on  the  hills  of  paradise 

For  her  children's  coming:  feet  ! 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


327 


HIDDEN    SORROW. 

HE  has  gone  at  last ;  yet  I  could  not 
see 

When  he  passed  to  his  final  rest  ; 
For  he  dropped  asleep  as  quietly 

As  the  moon  drops  out  of  the  west. 

And    I    only   saw,    though    I    kept  my 
place, 

That  his  mortal  life  was  o'er, 
By  the  look  of  peace  across  his  face, 

That  never  was  there  before. 

Sorrow  he  surely  had  in  the  past, 
Yet  he  uttered  never  a  breath  ; 

His  lips  were  sealed  in  life  as  fast 
As  you  see  them  sealed  in  death. 

Why  he  went  from  the  world  I  do  not 

know, 

Hiding  a  grief  so  deep  ; 
But  I   think,  if   he   ever  had  told  his 

woe, 
He  had  found  a  better  sleep. 

For  our  trouble    must  some  time  see 
the  light, 

And  our  anguish  will  have  way  ; 
And  the  infant,  crying  out  in  the  night, 

Reveals  what  it  hid  by  day. 

And  just  like  a  needful,  sweet  relief 
To  that  bursting  heart  it  seems, 

When  the  little  child's  unspoken  grief 
Runs  into  its  pretty  dreams. 

And    I    think,    though    his   face   looks 

hushed  and  mild, 
And  his  slumber  seems  so  deep, 
He   will   sob  in   his  grave,  as  a  little 

child 
Keeps  sobbing  on  in  its  sleep. 


A  WOMAN'S  CONCLUSIONS. 

I  SAID,  if  I  might  go  back  again 
To  the  very  hour  and  place  of  my 
birth  ; 

Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  chose, 
And  live  it  in  any  part  of  the  earth  ; 

Put  perfect  sunshine  into  my  sky, 
Banish    the   shadow   of  sorrow   and 

doubt  ; 


Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied, 
And  all  my  suffering  stricken  out ; 

If    I    could  have   known   in  the  years 

now  gone, 
The   best   that   a  woman  comes    to 

know  ; 
Could   have    had  whatever   will  make 

her  blest, 

Or  whatever  she   thinks   will  make 
her  so  ; 

Have   found   the   highest    and   purest 

bliss 

That  the  bridal-wreath  and  ring  in 
close  ; 
And   gained   the   one    out   of    all   the 

world, 

That  my  heart  as  well  as  my  reason 
chose  ; 

And  if  this  had  been,  and  I  stood  to 
night 
By  my  children,  lying  asleep  in  their 

beds 
And  could  count  in  my  prayers,  for  a 

rosary, 

The    shining   row   of    their    golden 
heads  ; 

Yea  !   I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 
Could  be  wrought  for  me,  at  my  bid 
ding,  still 
I  would  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it 

is, 
And  to  let  my  future  come  as  it  will  ! 

I    would   not   make   the   path    I    have 

trod 
More  pleasant  or  even,  more  straight 

or  wide  ; 
Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of 

a  hair, 
This  way  or  that  way,  to  either  side. 

My  past  is  mine,  and  I  take  it  all ; 
Its     weakness  —  its    folly,    if    you 

please  ; 

Nay,  even  my  sins,  if  you  come  to  that, 
May  have  been  my  helps,    not  hin 
drances  ! 

If  I  saved  my  body  from  the  flames 
Because  that  once  I  had  burned  my 

hand  ; 

Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By  doing   a   less  —  you  will    under 
stand  ; 


328 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


It  was  better  I  suffered  a  little  pain, 

Better  I  sinned  for  a  little  time, 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  back  from 

death, 

And  the  sting  of  sin  withheld  from 
crime. 

Who  knows  his  strength,  by  trial,  will 

know 
What  strength  must  be  set  against  a 

sin  ; 

And  how  temptation  is  overcome 
He   has    learned,    who    has   felt   its 
power  within  ! 

And  who  knows  how  a  life  at  the  last 

may  show  ? 
Why,  look  at  the  moon  from  where 

we  stand  ! 

Opaque,  uneven,  you  say  ;  yet  it  shines, 
A   luminous    sphere,    complete    and 
grand ! 

So  let  my  past  stand,  just  as  it  stands, 
And  let  me  now,  as  I  may,  grow  old  ; 

I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best  —  or  it  had  not  been,  I 
hold. 


ANSWERED. 

I  THOUGHT  to  find  some  healing  clime 
For   her    I   loved ;    she   found    that 
shore, 

That  city,  whose  inhabitants 

Are  sick  and  sorrowful  no  more. 

I  asked  for  human  love  for  her  ; 

The  Loving  knew  how  best  to  still 
The  infinite  yearning  of  a  heart, 

Which  but  infinity  could  fill. 

Such  sweet  communion  had  been  ours 
I  prayed  that  it  might  never  end  ; 

My   prayer   is    more    than    answered  ; 

now 
I  have  an  angel  for  my  friend. 

I  wished  for  perfect  peace,  to  soothe 
The  troubled -anguish  of  her  breast  ; 

And,  numbered    with    the    loved    and 

called, 
She  entered  on  untroubled  rest. 

Life  was  so  fair  a  thing  to  her, 
I  wept  and  pleaded  for  its  stay. 


My  wish  was  granted  me,  for  lo  ! 
She  hath  eternal  life  to-day. 


DISENCHANTED. 

THE  time  has  come,  as  I  knew  it  must, 
She  said,  when  we  should  part, 

But  I  ceased  to  love  when  I  ceased  to 

trust, 
And  you  cannot  break  my  heart. 

Nay,  I  know  not  even  if  I  am  sad, 
And  it  must  be  for  the  best, 

Since  you  only  take  what   I  thought  I 

had, 
And  leave  to  me  the  rest. 

Not  all  the  stars  of  my  hope  are  set, 

Though  one  is  in  eclipse  ; 
And  I  know  there  is  truth  in  the  wide 
world  yet 

If  it  be  not  on  your  lips. 

And  though  I  have  loved  you,  who  can 
tell 

If  you  ever  had  been  so  dear, 
But  that  my  heart  was  prodigal 

Of  its  wealth,  and  you  were  near. 

I  brought  each  rich  and  beautiful  thing 
From  my  love's  great  treasury  ; 

And  I  thought  in  myself  to  make  a  king 
With  the  robes  of  royalty. 

But  you  lightly  laid  my  honors  down, 
And  you  taught  me  thus  to  know, 

Not  every  head  can  wear  the  crown 
That  the  hands  of  love  bestow. 

So,  take  whatever  you  can  from  me, 

And  leave  me  as  you  will ; 
The  dear  romance  and  the  poesy 

Were  mine,  and  I  have  them  still. 

I  have  them  still ;  and  even  now, 
When  my  fancy  has  her  way, 

She  can  make  a  king  of  such  as  thou, 
Or  a  god  of  common  clay. 


ALAS  ! 

SINCE,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day, 
Only  our  hands  could  meet, 

What  matter  that  half  the  weary  world 
Lies  out  between  our  feet  ; 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


329 


That  I  am  here  by  the  lonesome  sea, 

You  by  the  pleasant  Rhine  ?  — 
Our  hearts  were  just  as  far  apart 
If  I  held  your  hand  in  mine  ! 

Therefore,    with     never    a    backward 
glance, 

I  leave  the  past  behind  ; 
And  standing  here  by  the  sea  alone, 

I  give  it  to  the  wind. 

I  give  it  all  to  the  cruel  wind, 
And  I  have  no  word  to  say  ; 

Yet,  alas  !  to  be  as  we  have  been, 
And  to  be  as  we  are  to-day  ! 


MOTHER  AND  SON. 

BRIGHTLY  for  him  the  future  smiled, 

The  world  was  all  untried  ; 
He  had  been  a  boy,  almost  a  child, 

In  your  household  till  he  died. 

And  you  saw  him,  young  and  strong 
and  fair, 

But  yesterday  depart ; 
And  you  now  know  he  is  lying  there 

Shot  to  death  through  the  heart  ! 

Alas,  for  the  step  so  proud  and  true 
That  struck  on  the  war-path's  track  ; 

Alas,  to  go,  as  he  went  from  you, 
And  to  come,  as  they  brought  him 
back! 

One  shining  curl  from  that  bright  young 
head, 

Held  sacred  in  your  home, 
Is  all  you  will  have  to  keep  in  his  stead 

In  the  years  that  are  to  come. 

You  may  claim  of  his  beauty  and  his 
youth 

Only  this  little  part  — 
It  is  not  much  with  which  to  stanch 

The  wound  in  a  mother's  heart  ! 

It  is  not  much  with  which  to  dry 

The  bitter  tears  that  flow  ; 
Not  much  in  your  empty  hands  to  lie 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go. 

Yet  he  has  not  lived  and  died  in  vain, 

For  proudly  you  may  say, 
He  has  left  a  name,  with  never  a  stain 

For  your  tears  to  wash  away. 


And  evermore  shall  your  life  be  blest, 
Though  your  treasures  now  are  few, 

Since  you  gave  for  your  country's  good 

the  best 
God  ever  gave  to  you  ! 


THEODORA. 

BY  that  name  you  will  not  know  her, 
But  if  words  of  mine  can  show  her 
In  such  way  that  you  may  see 
How  she  doth  appear  to  me  ; 
If,  attending  you  shall  find 
The  fair  picture  in  my  mind, 
You  will  think  this  title  meetest, 
Gift  of  God,  the  best  and  sweetest. 

All  her  free,  impulsive  acting, 
Is  so  charming,  so  distracting, 
Lovers  think  her  made,  I  know, 
Only  for  a  play-fellow. 
Coral  lips,  concealing  pearls, 
Hath  she,  'twixt  dark  rows  of  curls  ; 
And  her  words,  dropt  soft  and  slowly, 
Seem  half  ravishing,  half  holy. 

She  is  for  a  saint  too  human, 
Yet  too  saintly  for  a  woman  ; 
Something  childish  in  her  face 
Blended  with  maturer  grace, 
Shows  a  nature  pure  and  good, 
Perfected  by  motherhood  ;  — 
Eyes  Madonna-like,  love-laden, 
Holier  than  befit  a  maiden. 

Simple  in  her  faith  unshrinking, 
Wise  as  sages  in  her  thinking  ; 
Showing  in  her  artless  speech 
All  she  of  herself  can  teach  ; 
Hiding  love  and  thought  profound, 
In  such  depths  as  none  may  sound  ; 
One,  though  known  and  comprehended, 
Yet  with  wondrous  mystery  blended. 

Sitting  meekly  and  serenely, 
Sitting  in  a  state  most  queenly  ; 
Knowing,      though      dethroned,      dis 
crowned, 

That  her  kingdom  shall  be  found  ; 
That  her  Father's  child  must  be 
Heir  of  immortality  ; 
This  is  still  her  highest  merit, 
That  she  ruleth  her  own  spirit. 

Thou  to  whom  is  given  this  treasure, 
Guard  it,  love  it  without  measure  ; 


330 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


If  forgotten  it  should  lie 

In  a  weak  hand  carelessly, 

Thou  mayst  wake  to  miss  and  weep, 

That  which  thou  didst  fail  to  keep  ; 

Crying,  when  the  gift  is  taken, 

"  I  am  desolate,  forsaken  !  " 


UP  AND   DOWN. 

THE  sun  of  a  sweet  summer  morning 
Smiled  joyously  down  from  the  sky, 
As    we    climbed  up   the  mountain   to 
gether,  — 

My  charming  companion  and  I  ; 
The  wild  birds  that  live  in  the  bushes 
Sang  love,  without  fear  or  disguise, 
And  the   flowers,    with    soft,    blushing 

faces, 

Looked   love   from   their  wide-open 
eyes. 

In  and  out,  through  the  sunshine  and 

shadow, 

We  went  where  the  odors  are  sweet ; 
And  the  pathway  that  led  from  the  val 
ley 

Was  pleasant  and  soft  to  our  feet : 
And  while  we  were  hopefully  talking  — 
For   our    hearts    and   our   thoughts 

seemed  in  tune  — 

Unaware,  we  had  climbed  to  the  sum 
mit, 
And  the  sun  of  the  morning,  to  noon. 

For  my  genial  and  pleasant  companion 

Was  so  kind  and  so  helpful  the  while, 
That  I  felt  how  the  path  of  a  life-time 

Might  be  brightened  and  cheered  by 

his  smile  ; 

And  how  blest,  with  his  care  and  his 
guidance, 

Some  true,  loving  woman  might  be,  — 
Of  course  never  hoping  or  wishing 

Such  fortune  would  happen  to  me  ! 

We   spoke   of  life,   death,   truth,   and 

friendship,  — 

Things  hoped  for,  below  and  above, 
And  then  sitting  down  at  the  summit, 
We  talked  about  loving,  and  love  ; 
And  he  told  me  the  years  of  his  life 
time 

Till  now  had  been  barren  and  drear, 
In  tones  that  were  touching  and  ten 
der 
As  exquisite  music  to  hear. 


And  I  saw  in  the  eyes  looking  on  me, 

A  meaning  that  could  not  be  hid, 
Till  I   blushed — oh,  it  makes  me  so 
angry, 

Even  now,  to  remember  I  did  !  — 
As,  taking  my  hand,  he  drew  nearer, 

And  said,  in  his  tenderest  tone, 
'T  was  like  the  dear  hand  that  so  often 

Had  lovingly  lain  in  his  own. 

And  that,  't  was  not  flattery  only, 
But  honest  and  merited  praise, 

To  say  I  resembled  his  sweetheart 
Sometimes  in  my  words  and  my  ways. 

That  I  had  the  same  womanly  feelings, 
My  thoughts  were  as  noble  and  high  : 

But  that  she  was  a  trifle,  say,  fairer, 

And  a  year  or  two  younger  than  I. 

Then  he  told  me  my  welfare  was  dearer 

To  him  than  I  might  understand, 
And  he  wished  he  knew  any  one  worthy 

To  claim  such  a  prize  as  my  hand  ;  ' 
And  his  darling,  I  surely  must  love  her, 

Because  she  was  charming  and  good, 
And   because   she   had   made  him  so 
happy ; 

And    I    said    I    was    sure    that     I 
should  — 

That  nothing  could  make  me  so  happy 

As  seeing  him  happy  ;  but  then 
I  was  wretchedly  tired  and  stupid, 

And  wished  myself  back  in  the  glen. 
That  the  sun,  so  delightful  at  morning, 

Burned  now  with  a  merciless  flame  ; 
And  I  dreaded  again  to  go  over 

The  long,  weary  way  that  we  came. 

So  we  started  to  go  down  the  mount 
ain  ; 
But   the  wild    birds,   the    poor  silly 

things, 

Had  finished  their  season  of  courting, 
And    put    their   heads    under   their 

wings  ; 

And  the  flowers  that  opened  at  morn 
ing, 

All  blushing  with  joy  and  surprise, 
Had    turned   from   the    sun's    burning 

glances, 
And  sleepily  shut  up  their  eyes. 

Everything  I   had  thought  so  delight 
ful 

Was  gone,  leaving  scarcely  a  trace  ; 
And  even  my  charming  companion 

Grew  stupid  and  quite  commonplace. 


POEMS    OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 
that    I 


331 


He   was   not    the    same   man 

thought  him  — 

I  can't  divine  why  ;  but  at  once, 
The  fellow,  who  had  been  so  charm 
ing 
Was  changed  from  a  dear  to  a  dunce. 

But  if  any  young  man  needs  advising, 

Let    me    whisper    a    word    in    his 

ear :  — 
Don't  talk  of  the  lady  that 's  absent 

Too  much  to  the  lady  that 's  near. 
My  kindness  is  disinterested  ; 

So  in  speaking  to  me  never  mind  ; 
But  the  course  I  advise  you  to  follow 

Is  safe,  as  a  rule,  you  will  find. 

You  may  talk   about  love  in   the  ab 
stract, 
Say   the    ladies   are    charming   and 

dear  ; 
But  you  need  not  select  an  example, 

Nor  say  she  is  there,  or  is  here. 
When  it   comes   to  that  last  applica 
tion, 

Just  leave  it  entirely  out, 
And  give  to  the  lady  that  's  present 
The  benefit  still  of  the  doubt  ! 


BEYOND. 

WHEN  you  would  have  sweet  flowers 

to  smell  and  hold, 
You  do  not  seek  them  underneath  the 

cold 
Close-knitted  sod,  that  hides  away  the 

mould  ; 

Where  in  the  spring-time  past 
The  precious  seed  was  cast. 

Not  down,  but  up,  you  turn  your  eager 

eyes  ; 
You  find  in  summer  the  fair  flowery 

prize 

On  the   green  stalk,  that   reaches  to 
wards  the  skies, 
And,  bending  down  its  top, 
Gather  the  fragrant  crop. 

If  you  would  find  the  goal  of  some  pure 

rill, 

That,  following  her  unrestrained  will, 
Runs  laughing  down  the  bright  slope 

of  the  hill, 

Or,  with  a  serious  mien, 
Walks  through  the  valley  green, 


You  do  not  seek  the  spot  where  she 

was  born, 
The  cavernous  mountain  chamber,  dim, 

forlorn, 
That  never  saw  the  fair  face  of   the 

morn, 

Where  she,  with  wailing  sound, 
First  started  from  the  ground  ; 

But  rather  will  you  track  her  windings 

free, 

To  where  at  last  she  rushes  eagerly 
Into  the  white  arms  of  her  love,  the 

sea, 

And  hides  in  his  embrace 
The  rapture  on  her  face  ! 

If,  from  the  branches  of  a  neighboring 

tree, 

A  bird  some  morn  were  missing  sud 
denly, 

That  all  the  summer  sang  for  ecstasy, 
And  made  your  season  seem 
Like  a  melodious  dream, 

You  would  not  search  about  the  leaf 
less  dell, 
In  places  where  the  nestling  used  to 

dwell, 
To  find  the  white  walls  of  her  broken 

shell, 

Thinking  your  child  of  air, 
Your  winged  joy,  was  there  ! 

But  rather,  hurrying  from  the  autumn 

gale, 

Your  feet  would  follow  summer's  flow 
ery  trail 
To  find  her  spicy  grove,  and  odorous 

vale  ; 

Knowing  that  birds  and  song 
To  pleasant  climes  belong. 

Then  wherefore,  when  you  see  a  soul 

set  free 

From  this  poor  s"eed  of  its  mortality, 
And  know  you  sow  not  that  which  is 

to  be, 

Watch  you  about  the  tomb, 
For  the  immortal  bloom  ? 

Search  for  your  flowers  in  the  celestial 

grove, 
Look     for    your    precious    stream    of 

human  love 

In  the  unfathomable  sea  above  ; 
Follow  your  missing  bird, 
Where  songs  are  always  heard  ! 


332 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHtEBE   CARY. 


FAVORED. 

UPON  her  cheek  such  color  glows, 
And  in  her  eye  such  light  appears, 

As  comes,  and  only  comes  to  those, 
Whose  hearts  are  all  untouched  by 
years. 

Yet  half  her  wealth  she  doth  not  see, 
Nor  half  the  kindness  Heaven  hath 
shown, 

She  never  felt  the  poverty 

Of  souls  less  favored  than  her  own. 

When  all  is  hers  that  life  can  give, 
How  can  she  tell  how  drear  it  seems 

To  those,  uncomforted,  who  live 

In     dreaming     of     their     vanished 
dreams. 

Supplied  beyond  her  greatest  need 
With  lavish  hoard  of  love  and  trust, 

How  shall  she  pity  such  as  feed 

On  hearts  that  years  have  turned  to 

dust  ? 

When  sighs  are  smothered  down,  and 
lost 

In  tenderest  kisses  ere  they  start, 
What  knows  she  of  the  bitter  cost 

Of  hiding  sorrow  in  the  heart  ? 

While  fondest  care  each  wish  supplies, 
And    heart-strings  for  her  frowning 
break, 

What  can  she  know  of  one  who  dies 
For  love  she  scarcely  deigns  to  take  ? 

What  should   she   know  ?     No   weak 
complaint, 

No  cry  of  pain  should  come  to  her, 
If  mine  were  all  the  woes  I  paint, 

And  she  could  be  my  comforter  ! 


WOMEN. 

'T  is  a  sad  truth,  yet 't  is  a  truth 
That  does  not  need  the  proving  : 

They  give  their  hearts  away,  unasked, 
And  are  not  loved  for  loving. 

Striving  to  win  a  little  back, 
For  all  they  feel  they  hide  it  ; 

And  lips  that  tremble  with  their  love, 
In  trembling  have  denied  it. 


Sometimes    they  deem   the   kiss   and 
smile 

Is  life  and  love's  beginning  ; 
While  he  who  wins  the  heart  away, 

Is  satisfied  with  winning. 

Sometimes   they  think  they  have  not 
found 

The  right  one  for  their  mating  ; 
And  go  on  till  the  hair  is  white, 

And  eyes  are  blind  with  waiting. 

And  if  the  mortal  tarry  still, 
They  fill  their  lamps,  undying  ; 

And  till  the  midnight  wait  to  hear 
The    "  Heavenly  Bridegroom  "  cry 
ing. 

For  while  she  lives,  the  best  of  them 
Is  less  a  saint  than  woman  ; 

And  when  her  lips  ask  love  divine, 
Her  heart  asks  love  that 's  human  ! 


THE  ONLY  ORNAMENT. 

EVEN  as  a  child  too  well  she  knew 
Her  lack  of  loveliness  and  grace  ; 

So,  like  an  unprized  weed  she  grew, 
Grudging  the  meanest  flower  its  face. 

Often  with  tears  her  sad  eyes  filled, 
Watching  the  plainest  birds  that  went 

About  her  home  to  pair,  and  build 
Their  humble  nests  in  sweet  content. 

No  melody  was  in  her  words  ; 

You    thought    her,    as    she    passed 

along, 
As  brown  and  homely  as  the  birds 

She  envied,  but  without  their  song. 

She  saw,  and  sighed  to  see  how  glad 
Earth  makes  her  fair   and   favored 
child  ; 

While  all  the  beauty  that  she  had 
Was  in  her  smile,  nor  oft  she  smiled. 

So  seasons  passed  her  and  were  gone, 
She  musing  by  herself  apart  ; 

Till  the  vague  longing  that  is  known 
To  woman  came  into  her  heart. 

That  feeling  born  when  fancy  teems 
With  all  that  makes  this  life  a  good, 

Came  to  her,  with  its  wondrous  dreams, 
That  bless  and  trouble  maidenhood. 


POEMS   OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


333 


She  would  have  deemed  it  joy  to  sit 
In  any  home,  or  great  or  small, 

Could  she  have  hoped  to  brighten  it 
For  one  who  thought  of  her  at  all. 

At  night,  or  in  some  secret  place, 
She  used  to  think,  with  tender  pain, 

How  infants  love  the  mother's  face, 
And  know  not  if  't  is  fair  or  plain. 

She  longed  to  feast  her  hungry  eyes 
On  anything  her  own  could  please  ; 

To  sing  soft,  loving  lullabies 
To  children  lying  on  her  knees. 

And  yet  beyond  the  world  she  went, 
Unmissed,  as  if  she  had  not  been, 

Taking  her  only  ornament, 
A  meek  and  quiet  soul  within. 

None  ever  knew  her  heart  was  pained, 
Or  that  she  grieved  to  live  unsought  ; 

They  deemed  her  cold  and   self-con 
tained, 
Contented  in  her  realm  of  thought. 

Her  patient  life,  when  it  was  o'er, 
Was  one  that  all  the  world  approved  ; 

Some  marveled  at,  some  pitied  her, 
But  neither  man  nor  woman  loved. 

Even  little  children  felt  the  same  ; 

Were  shy  of  her,  from  awe  or  fear  ;  — 
I  wonder  if  she  knew  they  came, 

And  scattered  roses  on  her  bier  ! 


EQUALITY. 

MOST  favored  lady  in  the  land, 

I  well  can  bear  your  scorn  or  pride  ; 

For  in  all  truest  wealth,  to-day, 
I  stand  an  equal  by  your  side  ! 

No  better  parentage  have  you,  — 
One  is  our  Father,  one  our  Friend  ; 

The  same  inheritance  awaits 

Our  claiming,  at  the  journey's  end. 

No  broader  flight  your   thought    can 
^  take, — 

Faith  on  no  firmer  basis  rest ; 
Nor  can  the  dreams  of  fancy  wake 

A  sweeter  tumult  in  your  breast. 

Life  may  to  you  bring  every  good, 
Which   from   a   Father's   hand    can 
fall  ; 


But  if  true  lips  have  said  to  me, 
"  I  love  you,"  I  have  known  it  all  ! 


EBB-TIDE. 

WITH  her  white  face  full  of  agony, 

Under  her  dripping  locks, 
I  hear  the  wretched,  restless  sea, 

Complaining  to  the  rocks. 

Helplessly  in  her  great  despair, 

She  shudders  on  the  sand, 
The  bright  weeds    dropping  from  her 
hair, 

And  the  pale  shells  from  her  hand. 

'T  is  pitiful  thus  to  see  her  lie, 
With  her  beating,  heaving  breast, 

Here,  where  she  fell,  when  cast  aside, 
Sobbing  herself  to  rest. 

Alas,  alas  !  for  the  foolish  sea, 
Why  was  there  none  to  say  : 

The  wave  that  strikes  on  the  heartless 

stone 
Must  break  and  fall  away  ? 

Why  could  she  not  have  known  that 

this 

Would  be  her  fate  at  length  ;  — 
For  the  hand,  unheld,  must  slip  at  last, 
Though    it    cling   with    love's    own 
strength  ? 


HAPPY   WOMEN. 

IMPATIENT  women,  as  you  wait 
In  cheerful  homes  to-night,  to  hear 

The  sound  of  steps  that,  soon  or  late, 
Shall  come  as  music  to  your  ear  ; 

Forget  yourselves  a  little  while, 
And  think  in  pity  of  the  pain 

Of  women  who  will  never  smile 
To  hear  a  coming  step  again. 

With  babes  that  in  their  cradle  sleep, 
Or  cling  to  you  in  perfect  trust  ; 

Think  of  the  mothers  left  to  weep, 
Their  babies  lying  in  the  dust. 

And  when  the  step  you  wait  for  comes, 
And  all  your  world  is  full  of  light, 

O  women,  safe  in  happy  homes, 

Pray  for  all  lonesome  souls  to-night  ! 


334 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


LOSS   AND   GAIN. 

LIFE  grows  better  every  day, 
If  we  live  in  deed  and  truth  ; 

So  I  am  not  used  to  grieve 

For  the  vanished  joys  of  youth. 

For  though  early  hopes  may  die, 
Early  dreams  be  rudely  crossed  ; 

Of  the  past  we  still  can  keep 

Treasures  more  than  we  have  lost. 

For  if  we  but  try  to  gain 

Life's  best  good,  and  hold  it  fast, 
We  grow  very  rich  in  love 

Ere  our  mortal  days  are  past. 

Rich  in  golden  stores  of  thought, 
Hopes  that  give  us  wealth  untold  ; 

Rich  in  all  sweet  memories, 

That  grow  dearer,  growing  old. 

For  when  we  have  lived  and  loved, 
Tasted  suffering  and  bliss, 

All  the  common  things  of  life 
Have  been  sanctified  by  this. 

What  my  eyes  behold  to-day 
Of  this  good  world  is  not  all, 

Earth  and  sky  are  crowded  full 
Of  the  beauties  they  recall. 

When  I  watch  the  sunset  now, 
As  its  glories  change  and  glow, 

I  can  see  the  light  of  suns 
That  were  faded  long  ago. 

When  I  look  up  to  the  stars, 

I  find  burning  overhead 
All  the  stars  that  ever  shone 

In  the  nights  that  now  are  dead. 

And  a  loving,  tender  word, 

Dropping  from  the  lips  of  truth, 

Brings  each  dear  remembered  tone 
Echoing  backward  from  my  youth. 

When  I  meet  a  human  face, 
Lit  for  me  with  light  divine, 

I  recall  all  loving  eyes 

That  have  ever  answered  mine. 

Therefore,  they  who  were  my  friends 
Never  can  be  changed  or  old  ; 

For  the  beauty  of  their  youth 

Fond  remembrance  well  can  hold. 


And  even  they  whose  feet  here  crossed 
O'er  the  noiseless,  calm  abyss, 

To  the  better  shore  which  seemed 
Once  so  far  away  from  this  ; 

Are  to  me  as  dwelling  now 
Just  across  a  pleasant  stream, 

Over  which  they  come  and  go, 
As  we  journey  in  a  dream. 


A   PRAYER. 

I  ASK  not  wealth,  but  power  to  take 
And  use  the  things  I  have  aright, 

Not  years,  but  wisdom  that  shall  make 
My  life  a  profit  and  delight. 

I  ask  not,  that  for  me,  the  plan 
Of  good  and  ill  be  set  aside  ; 

But  that  the  common  lot  of  man 
Be  nobly  borne,  and  glorified. 

I  know  I  may  not  always  keep 

My  steps  in  places  green  and  sweet, 

Nor  find  the  pathway  of  the  deep 
A  path  of  safety  for  my  feet ; 

But  pray,  that  when  the  tempest's 
breath 

Shall  fiercely  sweep  my  way  about, 
I  make  not  shipwreck  of  my  faith 

In  the  unbottomed  sea  of  doubt ; 

And  that,  though  it  be  mine  to  know 
How  hard  the  stoniest  pillow  seems, 

Good  angels  still  may  come  and  go, 
About  the  places  of  my  dreams. 

I  do  not  ask  fer  love  below, 
That    friends    shall    never    be    es 
tranged  ; 
But  for  the  power  of  loving,  so 

My  heart   may  keep   its   youth   un 
changed. 

Youth,  joy,  wealth  —  Fate  I  give  thee 
these  ; 

Leave  faith  and  hope  till  life  is  past; 
And  leave  my  heart's  best  impulses 

Fresh  and  unfailing  to  the  last  ! 


MEMORIAL. 

TOILING  early,  and  toiling  late, 

Though  her  name  was  never  heard, 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND   FEELING. 

To  the  least  of  her  Saviour's  little  ones,  i    Ever  her  thankful  heart  and  lip 
She  meekly  ministered,  —  Run  over  into  song  and  prayer. 


335 


Publishing  good  news  to  the  poor  ; 

She  came  to  their  homes  unsought, 
And  her  feet  on  the  hills  were  beautiful, 

For  the  blessings  which  they  brought. 

Such  a  perfect  life  as  hers,  again, 
In  the  world  we  may  not  see  ; 

For  her  heart  was  full  of  love,  and  her 

hands 
Were  full  of  charity. 

Oh  woe  for  us !    cried  the  weak  and 

poor, 

And  the  weary  ones  made  moan  ; 
And    the    mourners   went    about    the 

streets, 
When  she  went  to  her  home  alone. 

And,  seeing  her  go  from  the  field  of 

life, 

From  toiling,  early  and  late, 
We  said,  What  good  has  she  gained, 

to  show 
For  a  sacrifice  so  great  ? 

We  might  have  learned  from  the  hus 
bandman 

To  wait  more  patiently, 
Since  his  seed  of  wheat  lies  under  the 

snow, 
Not  quickened,  except  it  die. 

For  when  we  raised  our  eyes  again 
From  their  sorrow's  wintry  night, 

We  saw  how  the  deeds  of  good  she  hid 
Were  pushing  up  to  the  light. 

And  still  the  precious  seed  she  showed, 

In  patient,  sorrowing  trust, 
Though  not  for  her  mortal  eyes  to  see, 

Comes  blossoming  out  of  the  dust. 


THE   HARMLESS   LUXURY. 

HER  skies,  of  whom  I  sing,  are  hung 
With  sad  clouds,  dropping   saddest 

tears  ; 
Yet  some  white  days,  like  pearls,  are 

strung 
Upon  the  dark  thread  of  her  years. 

And  as  remembrance  turns  to  slip 
Through  fingers  fond  the  treasures 
rare, 


With  joys  more  exquisite  and  deep 
Than   hers,    she    knows    this    good 
world  teems, 

Yet  only  asks  that  she  may  keep 
The  harmless  luxury  of  dreams. 

Thankful  that,  though  her  life  has  lost 
The  best  it  hoped,  the  best  it  willed, 

Her   sweetest    dream    has    not    been 

crossed, 
Or  worse  —  but  only  half  fulfilled. 

And  that  beside  her  still,  to  wile 

Her  thought  from    sad   and    sober 
truth, 

Are  Hope  and  Fancy,  all  the  while 
Feeding  her  heart's  eternal  youth. 

And  who  shall  say  that  they  who  close 
Their   eyes    to   Hope   and    Fancy's 

beams, 
Are  living  truer  lives  than  those, 

The    dreamers,    who    believe    their 
dreams 


TRIED  AND  TRUE. 

OUR  life  is  like  a  march,  where  some 
Fall  early  from  the  ranks,  and  die  ; 

And    some,    when    times    of    conflict 

come, 
Go  over  to  the  enemy. 

And  he  who  halts  upon  the  way  — 
Wearied  in  spirit  and  in  frame  — 

To  call  his  roll  of  friends,  will  find 
How  few  make  answer  to  their  name  ! 

And   those  who  share  our  youth  and 

j°y> 

Not  always  keep  our  love  and  trust, 
When  days  of  awful  anguish  bow 
Our  heads  with  sorrow  to  the  dust. 

My  friend  !  in  such  a  fearful  hour, 
When   heart    and    spirit    sank    dis 
mayed, 
From     thee     the    words     of     comfort 

came  — 
From  thee,  the  true  and  tender  aid. 

Therefore,  though  many  another  friend 
With   youth  and   youthful   pleasure 
goes, 


336 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Thou  art  of  such  as  I  would  have 
Walk  with  me  till  life's  solemn  close. 

Yea,  with   me  when  earth's  trials  are 

done,  — 
If    I    be    found,   when    these   shall 

cease, 

Worthy  to  stand  with  those  who  wear 
White  raiment  on  the  hills  of  peace. 


PEACE. 

O  LAND,  of  every  land  the  best  — 
O  Land,  whose  glory  shall  increase  ; 

Now  in  your  whitest  raiment  drest 
For  the  great  festival  of  peace  : 

Take  from  your  flag  its  fold  of  gloom, 
And  let  it  float  undimmed  above, 

Till  over  all  our  vales  shall  bloom 
The  sacred  colors  that  we  love. 

On  mountain  high,  in  valley  low, 
Set  Freedom's  living  fires  to  burn  ; 

Until  the  midnight  sky  shall  show 
A  redder  pathway  than  the  morn. 

Welcome,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pride, 
Your  veterans   from   the  war-path's 

track  ; 

You  gave  your  boys,  untrained,  un 
tried  ; 

You   bring    them   men   and    heroes 
back  ! 

And  shed  no  tear,  though  think  you 
must 

With  sorrow  of  the  martyred  band  ; 
Not  even  for  him  whose  hallowed  dust 

Has  made  our  prairies  holy  land. 

Though    by   the    places   where    they 
fell, 

The  places  that  are  sacred  ground, 
Death,  like  a  sullen  sentinel, 

Paces  his  everlasting  round. 

Yet  when  they  set  their  country  free 
And  gave  her  traitors  fitting  doom, 

They  left  their  last  great  enemy, 
Baffled,  beside  an  empty  tomb. 

Not  there,   but  risen,  redeemed,  they 

go 

Where  all  the  paths  are  sweet  with 
flowers  ; 


They  fought  to  give  us  peace,  and  lo  1 
They  gained   a   better    peace   than 
ours. 


SUNSET. 

AWAY  in  the  dim  and  distant  past 

That  little  valley  lies, 
Where  the  clouds  that  dimmed  life's 
morning  hours 

Were  tinged  with  hope's  sweet  dyes. 

That  peaceful  spot  from  which  I  looked 

To  the  future  —  unaware 
That  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 

Were  meant  for  me  to  bear. 

Alas,  alas  !  I  have  borne  the  heat, 
To  the  burden  learned  to  bow ; 

For   I   stand  on  the  top  of  the  hill  of 

life, 
And  I  see  the  sunset  now  ! 

I  stand  on  the  top,  but  I  look  not  back 
To  the  way  behind  me  spread  ; 

Not  to  the  path  my  feet  have  trod, 
But  the  path  they  still  must  tread. 

And  straight  and  plain  before  my  gaze 

The  certain  future  lies  ; 
But  my  sun  grows  larger  all  the  while 

As  he  travels  down  the  skies. 

Yea,  the  sun  of  my  hope  grows  large 

and  grand  ; 

For,  with  my  childish  years, 
I  have  left  the  mist  that  dimmed  my 

sight, 
I  have  left  my  doubts  and  fears. 

And  I  have  gained  in  hope  and  trust, 
Till  the  future  looks  so  bright, 

That,  letting  go  of  the  hand  of  Faith, 
I  walk,  at  times,  by  sight. 

For  we  only  feel  that  faith  is  life, 
And  death  is  the  fear  of  death, 

When   we   suffer    up    to    the    solemn 

heights 
Of  a  true  and  living  faith. 

When  we  do  not  say,  the  dead  shall 

rise 

At  the  resurrection's  call ; 
But  when  we  trust  in  the  Lord,  and 

know 
That  we  cannot  die  at  all  ! 


POEMS   OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


337 


APOLOGY. 

NAY,  darling,  darling,  do  not  frown, 
Nor  call  my  words  unkind  ; 

For  my  speech  was  but  an  idle  jest, 
As  idle  as  the  wind. 

And  now  that  I  see  your  tender  heart, 
By  my  thoughtlessness  is  grieved, 

I  suffer  both  for  the  pain  I  gave, 
And  the  pain  that  you  received. 

For  if  ever  I  have  a  thought  of  you, 

That  cold  or  cruel  seems, 
I  have  murdered  my  peace,  and  robbed 
my  sleep 

Of  the  joy  of  its  happy  dreams. 

And  when  I  have  brought  a  cloud  of 
grief 

To  your  sweet  face  unaware, 
Its  shadow  covers  all  my  sky 

With  the  blackness  of  despair. 

And  if  in  your  pillow  I  have  set 
But  one  sharp  thorn,  alone, 

That  cruel,  careless  deed,  transplants 
A  thousand  to  my  own. 

I  grieve  with  your  grief,  I  die  in  your 

frown, 

In  your  joy  alone  I  live  ; 
And  the  blow  that  it  pained  your  heart 

to  feel, 
I  would  break  my  own  to  give  ! 


THE  SHADOW. 

SHE  was  so  good,  we  thought  before 

she  died 

To   see    new  glory  on  her  path  de 
scend  ; 
And  could  not  tell,  till  she  has  gone 

inside, 

Why    there   was    darkness    at    her 
journey's  end. 

And  then  we  saw  that  she  had  stood, 

of  late, 
So  near  the   entrance  to  that   holy 

place, 
That,    from   the    Eternal    City's    open 

gate, 

The   awful    shadow   fell   across   her 
face. 

22 


MORNING  AND  AFTERNOON. 

FAIR  girl,  the  light  of  whose  morning 

keeps 

The  flush  of  its  dawning  glow, 
Do   you   ask  why  that  faded  woman 

weeps, 
Whose  sun  is  sinking  low  ? 

You  look  to  the  future,  on,  above, 
She  only  looks  to  the  past  ; 

You    are   dreaming    your    first   sweet 

dream  of  love, 
And  she  has  dreamed  her  last. 

You  watch  for  feet  that  are  yet  to  tread 
With  yours,  on  a  pleasant  track  ; 

She   hears   but   the    echoes   dull   and 

dread 
Of  feet  that  come  not  back. 

You  are  passing  up  the  flowery  slope 

She  left  so  long  ago  ; 
Your  rainbows  shine  through  the  drops 
of  hope, 

And  hers  through  the  drops  of  woe. 

Your  night  in  its  visions  glides  away 
And  at  morn  you  live  them  o'er  ; 

From  her  dreams  by  night  and  dreams 

by  day 
She  has  waked  to  dream  no  more. 

You    are    reaching    forth    with   spirit 

glad 

To  hopes  that  are  still  untried  ; 
She  is  burying  the  hopes  she  had, 
That  have  slipped  from  her  arms  and 
died. 

You  think  of  the  good,  for  you  in  store, 
Which  the  future  yet  will  send  ; 

While  she,  she  knows  it  were  well  for 

her 
If  she  made  a  peaceful  end  ! 


LIVING   BY  FAITH. 

WHEN  the  way  we  should  tread  runs 

evenly  on, 

And  light  as  of  noonday  is  over  it  all, 
'T  is  strange   how  our  feet  will  turn 

aside 

To  paths  where  we  needs  must  grope 
and  fall  ; 


338 


THE   POEMS  OF  PH(EBE   GARY. 


How  we  suffer,  knowing  it  all  the  while, 
Some    phantom    between    ourselves 

and  the  light, 
That     shuts     in     disastrous,     strange 

eclipse, 
The  very  powers  of  sense  and  sight. 

Yet  we  live  so,  all  of  us,  I  think, 

Hiding  whatever  of  truth  we  choose, 

And  deceiving  ourselves  with  a  subtilty 
That  never  a  soul  but  our  own  could 


We  see  the  love  in  another's  eyes, 
Where  our   own,  reflected,  is  back 
ward  sent  ; 
Or  we   hear  a  tone,  that   is  not  in   a 

tone, 
And  find  a  meaning  that  is  not  meant. 

We  put  our  faith  in  the  help  of  those 
Who  never  have  been  a  help  at  all  ; 

And  lean  on  an  object  that  all  the  while 
We  know  we  are  holding  back  from 
its  fall ! 

When  words  seem  thoughtless,  or  deed 

unkind, 
We  are  soothed  with  the  kind  intent 

instead  ; 

And  we  say  of  the  absent,  silent  one  : 
He    is   faithful  —  but  he  is  sick,  or 
dead  ! 

We    have    loved    some    dear  familiar 

step, 
That  once  in  its  fall  was  firm  and 

clear  ; 
And  that  household  music's   sweetest 

sound 
Came  fainter  every  day  to  our  ear  ; 

And  then  we  have  talked  of   the  far 
away — 
Of  the  springs  to  come  and  the  years 

to  be, 
When   the  rose   should  bloom  in  our 

dear  one's  cheek, 

And   her  feet    should    tread    in    the 
meadows  free  ! 

We  have  turned  from  death,  to  speak 

of  life, 
When  we  knew  that  earthly  hope  was 

past  ; 
Yet  thinking  that  somehow,  God  would 

work 
A  miracle  for  us,  to  the  last. 


We  have  seen  the  bed  of  a  cherished 

friend 
Pushing   daily  nearer   and    nearer, 

till 

It  stood  at  the  very  edge  of  the  grave, 
And  we  looked  across  and  beyond  it, 
still. 

Aye,  more  than  this  —  we  have  come 

and  gazed 
Down  where  that  dear  one's  mortal 

part 
Was   lowered   forever   away  from  our 

sight ; 

And   we   did   not   die   of   a   broken 
heart. 

Are  we  blind  !  nay,  we  know  the  world 

unknown 
Is  all  we  would   make    the   present 

seem  ; 
That  our    Father   keeps,   till  his  own 

good  time, 

The   things  we  dream  of,  and  more 
than  we  dream. 

For 'we  shall  not  sleep;  but  we  shall 

be  changed  ; 
And  when  that  change  at  the  last  is 

made, 

We  shall  bring  realities  face  to  face 
With  our  souls,  and  we  shall  not  be 
afraid. 


MY   LADY. 

As  violets,  modest,  tender-eyed, 
The  light  of  their  beauty  love  to  hide 

In  deepest  solitudes  ; 
Even  thus,  to  dwell  unseen,  she  chose, 
My  flower  of  womanhood,  my  rose, 

My  lady  of  the  woods  ! 

Full  of  the  deepest,  truest  thought, 
Doing  the  very  things  she  ought, 

Stooping  to  all  good  deeds  : 
Her  eyes  too  pure  to  shrink  from  such, 
And  her  hands  too  clean  to  fear  the 
touch 

Of  the  sinfulest  in  his  needs. 

There  is  no  line  of  beauty  or  grace 
That  was    not    found    in 'her   pleasant 

face, 

And  no  heart  can  ever  stir, 
With   a   sense    of   human    wants    and 

needs, 


POEMX   OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


339 


With     promptings     url'j     the    holiest 

deeds, 
But  had  their  b'.rth  in  her. 

With  ne^er  a  taint  of  the  world's  un 
truth, 

She  lived  from  infancy  to  youth, 
From  youth  to  womanhood  : 
Taking  no  soil  in  the  ways  she  trod, 
But  pure  as  she  came  from  the  hand  of 

God, 
Before  His  face  she  stood. 

My    sweetest    darling,    my    tenderest 

care  ! 
The  hardest  thing  that  I  have  to  bear 

Is  to  know  my  work  is  past  ; 
That  nothing  now'  I  can  say  or  do 
Will    bring    any    comfort    or    aid    to 

you,— 
I  have  said  and  done  the  last. 

Yet  I  know  I  never  was  good  enough, 
That  my  tenderest  efforts  were  all  too 

rough 

To  help  a  soul  so  fine  ; 
So   the   lovhigest    angel   among    them 

all, 
Whose    touches   fell,  with  the  softest 

fail, 
Has  pushed  my  hand  from  thine  ! 


PASSING  FEET. 

ALL  these  hours  she  sits  and  counts, 
As  they  pass  her  slow  and  sad, 

Are  the  headsmen  cutting  off 
Every  flower  of  hope  she  had  ; 

And  the  feet  that  come  and  go 
In  the  darkness  past  her  door, 

If  they  trod  upon  her  heart, 
Could  not  pain  it  any  more. 

Friends  hastening  now  to  friends, 
Faster  as  the  night  grows  late  ; 

Through  all  places  men  can  go, 
To  all  homes  where  women  wait. 

Some  are  pressing  through  the  wood 
Where  the  path  is  faint  and  nevy  ; 

Some  strike  out  a  shorter  way, 
Across  meadows  wet  with  dew. 

Some,  along  the  highway's  track, 
Music  to  their  footsteps  keep  ; 


Some  are  pushing  into  port, 
From  their  exile  on  the  deep. 

But  the  hope  she  had  at  eve 

From  her  wretched  soul  has  fled  ; 

For  the  lamp  of  love  she  lit 

Has  burned  useless,  and  is  dead. 

So  the  feet  that  come  and  go, 
In  the  darkness  past  her  door, 

If  they  trod  upon  her  heart 
Could  not  pain  it  any  more  ! 


MY  RICHES. 

THERE  is  no  comfort  in  the  world 
But  I,  in  thought,  have  known  ; 

No  bliss  for  any  human  heart, 
I  have  not  dreamed  my  own  ; 

And  fancied  joys  may  sometimes  be 

More  real  than  reality. 

I  have  a  house  in  which  to  live, 
Pleasant,  and  fair,  and  good, 

Its  hearth  is  crowned  with  warmth  and 

light, 
Its  board  with  daintiest  food. 

And  I,  when  tired  with  care  or  doubt. 

Go  in  and  shut  my  sorrows  out. 

I  have  a  father,  one  whose  care 
Goes  with  me  where  I  roam  ; 

A  mother,  waiting  anxiously 
To  see  her  child  come  home  ; 

And  sisters,  from  whose  tender  eyes 

The  love  in  mine  hath  sweet  replies. 

I  have  a  friend,  who  sees  in  me 

What  none  beside  can  see, 
Not  faultless,  but  as  firm  and  true, 

And  pure,  as  man  may  be  ; 
A  friend,  whose  love  is  never  dim^. 
And  I  can  never  change  to  him. 

My  boys  are  very  gentle  boys, 

And  after  they  are  grown, 
They  're  nobler,  better,  braver  men 

Than  any  I  have  known  ! 
And  all  my  girls  are  fair  and  good 
From  infancy  to  womanhood. 

So  with  few  blessings  in  the  world 
That  men  can  see  or  name, 

Home,  love,  and  all  that  love  can  bring 
My  mind  has  power  to  claim  ; 

And  life  can  never  cease  to  be 

A  good  and  pleasant  thing  to  me. 


340 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


FIGS  OF  THISTLES. 

As  laborers  set  in  a  vineyard 

Are  we  set  in  life's  field, 
To  plant  and  to  garner  the  harvest 

Our  future  shall  yield. 

And  never  since  harvests  were  ripened, 

Or  laborers  born, 
Have  men  gathered  figs  of  the  thistle,     j 

Or  grapes  of  the  thorn  ! 

Even  he  who  has  faithfully  scattered 

Clean  seed  in  the  ground, 
Has  seen,  where  the  green  blade  was 
growing, 

Tares  of  evil  abound. 

Our  labor   ends   not   with   the    plant 
ing, 

Sure  watch  must  we  keep, 
For  the  enemy  sows  in  the  night-time 

While  husbandmen  sleep. 

And  sins,  all  unsought  and  unbidden, 

Take  root  in  the  mind ; 
As  the  weeds  grow,  to  choke  up  the 
blossoms 

Chance-sown  by  the  wind. 

But  no   good   crop,   our  hands   never 

planted, 

Doth  Providence  send  ; 
Nor  doth  that  which  we  planted  have 

increase 
Till  we  water  and  tend. 

By  our  fruits,  whether  good,  whether 
evil, 

At  last  are  we  shown  ; 
And  he  who  has  nothing  to  gather, 

By  his  lack  shall  be  known. 

And  no  useless  creature  escapeth 

His  righteous  reward  ; 
For  the  tree  or  the  soul  that  is  barren 

Is  cursed  of  the  Lord  ! 


IMPATIENCE. 

WILL  the  mocking   daylight  never  be 
done  : 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
O  weary  sun  !  O  merciless  sun  ! 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting  ! 


And  yet,  if  the  days  could  come  and 

g° 

As  fast  as  I  count  them  over, 
They  would  seem  to  me  like  years,  I 

know, 
Till  they  brought  me  back  my  lover. 

Down  through  the  valleys,  down  to  the 

south, 

O  west  wind,  go  with  fleetness, 
Kiss,   with    your   daintiest   kisses,  his 

mouth, 
And  bring  to  me  all  its  sweetness. 

Go  when  he  lieth  in  slumber  deep, 
And  put  your  arms  about  him, 

And  hear  if  he  whisper  my  name  in  his 

sleep, 
And  tell  him,  I  die  without  him. 

O  birds,  that  sail  in  the  air  like  ships, 

To  me  such  discord  bringing, 
If  you  heard  the  sound  of  my  lover's 

lips, 

You  would  be  ashamed  of  your  sing 
ing  ! 

O  rose,  from  whose  heart  such  a  crim 
son  rain 

Up  to  your  soft  cheek  gushes, 
You  never  could  show  your  face  again, 

If  you  saw  my  lover's  blushes  ! 

O  hateful  stars,  in  hateful  skies, 

Can  you  think  your  light  is  tender, 
When  you  steal  it  all  from  my  lover's 

eyes, 

And   shine  with  a  borrowed   splen 
dor? 

O  sun,  going  over  the  western  wall, 
If  you  stay  there  none  will  heed  you  ; 

For  why  should    you  rise   or  shine  at 

all 
When  he  is  not  here  to  need  you  ? 

Will   the    mocking  daylight   never   be 
done  ? 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
O  weary  sun  !  O  merciless  sun  ! 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting  ! 


THOU  AND  I. 

STRANGE,  strange  for  thee  and  me, 
Sadly  afar ; 


POEMS   OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


341 


Thou  safe  beyond,  above, 

I  'neath  the  star  ; 
Thou  where  flowers  deathless  spring, 

I  where  they  fade  ; 
Thou  in  God's  paradise, 

I  'mid  time's  shade  ! 

Thou  where  each  gale  breathes  balm, 

I  tempest-tossed  ; 
Thou  where  true  joy  is  found, 

I  where  't  is  lost  ; 
Thou  counting  ages  thine, 

I  not  the  morrow  ; 
Thou  learning  more  of  bliss, 

I  more  of  sorrow. 

Thou  in  eternal  peace, 

I  'mid  earth's  strife  ; 
Thou  where  care  hath  no  name, 

I  where  't  is  life  ; 
Thou  without  need  of  hope, 

I  where  'tis  vain  ; 
Thou  with  wings  dropping  light, 

I  with  time's  chain. 

Strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me, 

Loved,  loving  ever  ; 
Thou  by  Life's  deathless  fount, 

I  near  Death's  river  ; 
Thou  winning  Wisdom's  love, 

I  strength  to  trust  ; 
Thou  'mid  the  seraphim, 

I  in  the  dust  ! 


NOBODY'S  CHILD. 

ONLY  a  newsboy,  under  the  light 
Of  the  lamp-post  plying  his  trade  in 

vain  : 

Men  are  too  busy  to  stop  to-night, 
Hurrying  home  through  the  sleet  and 

rain. 
Never  since  dark  a  paper  sold  ; 

Where  shall  he  sleep,  or  how  be  fed  ? 


He  thinks  as  he  shivers  there  in  the 

cold, 
While  happy  children  are  safe  abed. 

Is  it  strange  if  he  turns  about 
With    angry  words,    then   comes    to 

blows, 

When  his  little  neighbor,  just  sold  out, 

Tossing  his  pennies,  past  him  goes  ? 

"  Stop  !  "   —  some    one   looks    at   him, 

sweet  and  mild, 
And  the  voice  that  speaks  is  a  tender 

one  : 
"  You   should   not  strike  such  a  little 

child, 

And  you  should  not  use  such  words, 
my  son  !  " 

Is  it  his  anger  or  his  fears 
That    have    hushed    his   voice   and 

stopped  his  arm  ? 
"  Don't  tremble,"  these  are  the  words 

he  hears  ; 
"  Do  you  think  that  I  would  do  you 

harm  ? " 
"  It   is  n't   that,"   and  the  hand  drops 

down  ; 
"  I    would  n't    care   for    kicks    and 

blows  ; 
But  nobody  ever  called  me  son, 

Because     I   'm    nobody's     child,     I 
s'pose." 

O  men  !  as  ye  careless  pass  along, 
Remember  the  love   that  has  cared 

for  you  ; 
And    blush  for  the   awful   shame  and 

wrong 
Of  a  world  where  such  a  thing  could 

be  true  ! 
Think  what  the  child  at  your  knee  had 

been 

If  thus  on  life's  lonely  billows  tossed  ; 
And  who  shall  bear  the  weight  of  the 

sin, 
If  one  of  these  "  little  ones  "  be  lost ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


AN  APRIL  WELCOME. 

COME  up,  April,  through  the  valley, 

In  your  robes  of  beauty  drest, 
Come  and  wake  your  flowery  children 

From  their  wintry  beds  of  rest  ; 
Come  and  overblow  them  softly 

With  the  sweet  breath  of  the  south  ; 
Drop  upon  them,  warm  and  loving, 

Tenderest  kisses  of  your  mouth. 

Touch  them  with  your  rosy  fingers, 

Wake  them  with  your  pleasant  tread, 
Push  away  the  leaf-brown  covers, 

Over  all  their  faces  spread  ; 
Tell  them  how  the  sun  is  waiting 

Longer  daily  in  the  skies, 
Looking  for  the  bright  uplifting 

Of  their  softly-fringed  eyes. 

Call  the  crow-foot  and  the  crocus, 

Call  the  pale  anemone, 
Call  the  violet  and  the  daisy, 

Clothed  with  careful  modesty  ; 
Seek  the  low  and  humble  blossoms, 

Of  their  beauties  unaware, 
Let  the  dandelion  and  fennel, 

Show  their  shining  yellow  hair. 

Bid  the  little  homely  sparrows 

Chirping,  in  the  cold  and  rain, 
Their  impatient  sweet  complaining, 

Sing  out  from  their  hearts  again  ; 
Bid  them  set  themselves  to  mating, 

Cooling  love  in  softest  words, 
Crowd  their  nests,  all  cold  and  empty, 

Full  of  little  callow  birds. 

Come  up,  April,  through  the  valley, 
Where  the  fountain  sleeps  to-day, 

Let  him,  freed  from  icy  fetters, 
Go  rejoicing  on  his  way  ; 

Through  the  flower-enameled  meadows 
Let  him  run  his  laughing  race, 


Making  love  to  all  the  blossoms 
That  o'erlean  and  kiss  his  face. 

But  not  birds  and  blossoms  only, 

*Not  alone  the  streams  complain, 
Men  and  maidens  too  are  calling, 

Come  up,  April,  come  again  ! 
Waiting  with  the  sweet  impatience 

Of  a  lover  for  the  hours 
They  shall  set  the  tender  beauty 

Of  thy  feet  among  the  flowers  ! 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S  HOUSE. 

IN   the   years   that  now  are  dead  and 

gone  — 

Aye,  dead,  but  ne'er  forgot  — 
My   neighbor's    stately   house    looked 

down 
On  the  walls  of  my  humble  cot. 

I  had  my  flowers  and  trees,  't  is  true, 
But  they  looked  not  fine  and  tall 

As   my  neighbor's   flowers  and   trees, 

that  grew 
On  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

Through   the  autumn   leaves    his  ripe 

fruits  gleamed 
With  richer  tints  than  mine, 
And  his  grapes   in   the    summer   sun 
shine  seemed 
More  full  of  precious  wine. 

Through   garden   walk    and    bowei    i 

stray 

Unbidden  now  and  free  ; 
For    my   neighbor    long    has    passed 

away, 
And  his  wealth  has  come  to  me. 

I  pace  those  stately  halls  at  last, 
But  a  darker  shadow  falls' 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


343 


Within  the  house  than  once  it  cast 
On  my  lowly  cottage  walls. 

I  pluck  the  fruit,  the  wine  I  waste, 
I  drag  through  the  weary  hours  ; 

But  the  fruit  is  bitter  to  my  taste, 
And  I  tire  of  the  scent  of  flowers. 

And  I  'd  take  my  poverty  instead 
And  all  that  I  have  resign, 

To  feel  as  I  felt  when  I  coveted 
The  wealth  that  now  is  mine. 


THE  FORTUNE  IN  THE  DAISY. 

OF  what  are  you  dreaming,  my  pretty 

maid, 

With  your  feet  in  the  summer  clover  ? 
Ah  !  you  need  not  hang  your  modest 

head: 
I  know  't  is  about  your  lover. 

I  know  by  the  blushes  on  your  cheek, 
Though     you     strive    to     hide    the 

token  ; 
And    I    know    because    you    will    not 

speak, 
The  thought  that  is  unspoken. 

You  are  counting  the  petals,  one  by 

one, 

Of  your  dainty,  dewy  posies, 
To  find  from  their  number,  when  't  is 

done, 
The  secret  it  discloses. 

You  would  see  if  he  comes  with  gold 

and  land  — 

The  lover  that  is  to  woo  you ; 
Or  only  brings  his  heart  and  his  hand, 
For  your  heart  and  your  hand  to  sue 
you. 

Beware,  beware,  what  you  say  and  do, 
Fair   maid,    with    your    feet    in   the 

clover ; 
For   the    poorest   man    that   comes  to 

woo, 
May  be  the  richest  lover  ! 

Since  not  by  outward  show  and  sign 
Can  you  reckon  worth's  true  meas 
ure, 

Who  only  is  rich  in  soul  and  mind, 
May  offer  the  greatest  treasure. 


Ah!   there  never  was   power  in  gems 

alone 

To  bind  a  brow  from  aching ; 
Nor    strength    enough    in    a   jeweled 

zone 
To  hold  a  heart  from  breaking. 

Then  be  not  caught  by  the  sheen  and 

glare 

Of  worldly  wealth  and  splendor  ; 
But  speak   him  soft,  and    speak  him 

fair, 
Whose  heart  is  true  and  tender. 

You    may    wear    your    virtues    as    a 
crown, 

As  you  walk  through  life  serenely  ; 
And  grace  your  simple  rustic  gown 

With  a  beauty  more  than  queenly  — 

Though  only  one  for  you  shall  care, 
One  only  speak  your  praises  ; . 

And  you  never  wear,  in  your  shining 

hair, 
A  richer  flower  than  daisies  ! 


A  PICTURE. 

HER  brown  hair  plainly  put  away 
Under  her  broad  hat's  rustic  brim  ; 

That  threw  across  her  placid  brow 
Its  veil-like  shadow,  cool  and  dim  : 

Her  shut  lips  sweet  as  if  they  moved 
Only  to  accents  good  and  true  ; 

Her  eyes   down-dropt,  yet  bright  and 

clear 
As  violets  shining  out  of  dew  : 

And  folded  close  together  now 

The    tender  hands    that   seemed  to 
prove 

Their  wondrous  fitness  to  perform 
The  works  of  charitable  love. 

Such  is  her  picture,  but  too  fair 
For  pencil  or  for  pen  to  paint ; 

For  who  could  show  you  all  in  one 
The  child,  the  woman,  and  the  saint  ? 

I  needs  must  fail ;  for  mortal  hand 
Her    full    completeness    may    not 
trace, 

Whose  meek  and  quiet  spirit  gives 
Heaven's  beauty  to  an  earthly  face  ! 


344 


THE  POEMS  OF  FHCEBE   GARY. 


FAITH. 

DEAR,  gentle  Faith  !  on  the  sheltered 
porch 

She  used  to  sit  by  the  hour, 
As  still  and  white  as  the  whitest  rose 

That  graced  the  vines  of  her  bower. 
She  watched  the  motes  in  the  sun,  the 
bees, 

And  the  glad  birds  come  and  go  ; 
The  butterflies,  and  the  children  bright 

That  chased  them  to  and  fro. 
She  saw  them  happy,  one  and  all, 

And  she  said  that  God  was  good  ; 
Though  she  never  had  walked  on  the 
sweet  green  grass, 

And,  alas  !  she  never  would  ! 

She  saw  the  happy  maid  fulfill 

Her  woman's  destiny; 
The  trusting  bride  on  the  lover's  arm, 

And    the    babe    on    the    mother's 

knee. 
She  folded  meek,  her  empty  hands, 

And  she  blest  them,  all  and  each, 
While  the  treasure  that  she  coveted 

Was  put  beyond  her  reach. 

"Yea,  if  God  wills  it  so,"  she  said, 
"  Even  so  't  is  mine  to  live. 

What  to  withhold  He  knoweth  best, 
As  well  as  what  to  give  !  " 

At  last,  for  her,  the  very  sight 

Of  the  good,  fair  earth  was  done. 
She   could  not   reach   the   porch,   nor 
see 

The   grass,    nor   the   motes   in   the 

sun  ; 
Yet  still  her  smile  of  sweet  content 

Made  heavenly  all  the  place, 
As  if  they  sat  about  her  bed 

Who  see  the  Father's  face  ; 
For  to  his  will  she  bent  her  head, 

As  bends  to  the  rain  the  rose. 
"We  know  not  what  is  best,"  she  said  ; 

"  We  only  know  He  knows  !  " 

Poor,    crippled    Faith  !     glad,    happy 

Faith  ! 

Even  in  affliction  blest  ; 
For  she  made  the  cross  we  thought  so 

hard 

A  sweet  support  and  rest. 
Wise,  trusting  Faith  !    when  she  gave 
her  hand 


To  One  we  could  not  see, 
She  told  us  all  she  was  happier 

Than  we  could  ever  be. 
And  we  knew  she  thought  how  her  feet, 
that  ne'er 

On  the  good,  green  earth  had  trod, 
Would  walk  at  last  on  the  lily-beds 

That  bloom  in  the  smile  of  God  ! 


TO  AN  ELF  ON  A  BUTTERCUP. 

CUNNING  little  fairy, 

Where  the  breezes  blow, 
Rocking  in  a  buttercup, 

Lightly  to  and  fro  ; 
Little  folks  for  nothing 

Look  not  so  demure  ; 
You  are  planning  mischief, 

I  am  very  sure  ! 

You  will  soon  be  dancing 

Down  beside  the  spring  ; 
On  the  velvet  meadow, 

In  a  fairy  ring  ; 
Spoiling  where  the  ewes  feed 

All  the  tender  grass  ; 
And  making  charmed  circles, 

Mortals  dare  not  pass. 

Darkening  light  where  lovers 

Modest  sit  apart, 
You  will  kiss  the  maiden, 

With  your  wicked  art  ; 
Make  her  think  her  wooer 

Woefully  to  blame  ; 
Through  her  frowns  and  blushes 

Crying  out,  "  For  shame  !  " 

Ah  !  my  little  fairy, 

With  your  mystic  charms, 
You  have  slipped  the  infant 

From  its  mother's  arms  ; 
And  have  left  a  changeling 

In  its  place  at  night ; 
While  you  turned  the  mortal 

To  a  tricksy  sprite. 

Thus  you  mix  folks  up  so, 

Wicked,  willful  elf ; 
Never  one  of  us  can  know 

If  he  be  himself  : 
And  sitting  here  and  telling 

Of  the  tricks  you  do  ; 
I  wonder  whether  I  am  I, 

Or  whether  I  am  you  ! 


POEMS   OF  NA  TURE  AND  HOME. 


345 


PROVIDENCE. 

"  AH  !  what  will  become  of  the  lily, 
When  the  summer-time  is  dead  ? 

Must  she  lay  her  spotless  robes  away, 
And  hide  in  the  dust  her  head  ? " 

"  My  child,   the   hand  that   bows   her 
head 

Can  lift  it  up  anew  ; 
And  weave  another  shining  robe 

Of  sunshine  and  of  dew." 

"  But,  father,  what  will   the  sparrows 

do? 
Though   they   chirp    so   blithe   and 

bold, 
When     the    shelter   of    the    leaves    is 

gone 
They  must  perish  with  the  cold." 

"  The   sparrows  are  little  things,   my 
child, 

And  the  cold  is  hard  to  bear  ; 
Yet  never  one  of  these  shall  fall 

Without  our  Father's  care." 

"  But   how  will   the   tender   lambs  be 
clothed  ? 

For  you  know  the  shepherd  said, 
He  must  take  their  fleeces  all  away, 

For  us  to  wear  instead." 

"They  are  warm  enough    to-day,   my 
child, 

And  so  soon  their  fleeces  grow, 
They  each  will  have  another  one 

Before  they  feel  the  snow." 

"  I  know  you  will  keep  me,  father  ; 

That  I  shall  be  clothed  and  fed  ; 
But   suppose   that    I    were    lost   from 
home, 

Oh,  suppose  that  you  were  dead  !  " 

"  My  child,   there  is   One  who  seeks 
you, 

No  matter  where  you  roam  ; 
And  you  may  not  stray  so  far  away, 

That  He  cannot  bring  you  home." 

"  For  you  have  a  better  Father, 

In  a  better  home  above  ; 
And  the  very   hairs  of  your  precious 
head 

Are  numbered  by  His  love  !  " 


OLD  PICTURES. 

OLD  pictures,  faded  long,  to-night 
Come    out    revealed    by    memory's 

gleam  ; 
And   years    of     checkered    dark   and 

light 
Vanish  behind  me  like  a  dream. 

I  see  the  cottage,  brown  and  low, 
The    rustic    porch,    the    roof-tree's 
shade, 

And  all  the  place  where  long  ago 
A  group  of  happy  children  played. 

I  see  the  brother,  bravest,  best, 

The    prompt    to    act,   the    bold    to 
speak  ; 

The  baby,  dear  and  honored  guest  ! 
The  timid  sister,  shy  and  meek. 

I  see  her  loving  face  who  oft 

Watched,  that  their  slumbers  might 

be  sweet ; 
And  his  whose  dear  hand  made  so  soft 

The  path  for  all  their  tender  feet. 

I    see,    far     off,     the     woods     whose 

screen 

Bounded  the  little  world  we  knew; 
And  near,  in  fairy  rings  of  green, 
The  grass  that  round  the  door-stones 
grew. 

I  watch  at  morn  the  oxen  come, 
And   bow  their   meek   necks   to  the 
yoke  ; 

Or  stand  at  noontide,  patient,  dumb, 
In  the  great  shadow  of  the  oak. 

The  barn  with  crowded  mows  of  hay, 
And  roof  upheld  by  golden  sheaves; 

Its  rows  of  doves,  at' close  of  day, 
Cooing  together  on  the  eaves. 

I  see,  above  the  garden-beds, 

The  bee  at  work  with  laden  wing  ; 

The  dandelions'  yellow  heads 

Crowding  about  the  orchard  spring  ; 

The  little,  sweet- voiced,  homely  thrush  ; 
The     field-lark,  with     her   speckled 

breast  ; 

The  finches  in  the  currant-bush  ; 
And  where  the  bluebirds  hid   their 
nest. 


346 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


I  see  the  comely  apple-trees, 

In    spring,  a-blush    with    blossoms 

sweet  ; 

Or,  bending  with  the  autumn  breeze, 
Shake  down  their  ripe  fruits  at  our 
feet. 

I  see,  when  hurtling  through  the  air 
The  arrows  of  the  winter  fly, 

And  all  the  frozen  earth  lies  bare, 
A  group  about  the  hearth  draw  nigh, 

Of  little  ones  that  never  tire 
Of  stories  told  and  told  again  ; 

I  see  the  pictures  in  the  fire, 

The  firelight  pictures  in  the  pane. 

I  almost  feel  the  stir  and  buzz 
Of  day  ;  the  evening's  holy  calm  ; 

Yea,  all  that  made  me  what  I  was, 
And  helped  to  make  me  what  I  am. 

Then  lo  !  it  dies,  as  died  our  youth  ; 

And    things    so   strange    about    me 

seem, 
I  know  not  what  should  be  the  truth, 

Nor  whether  I  would  wake  or  dream. 

I  have  not  found  to-day  so  vain, 
Nor  yesterday  so  fair  and  good, 

That  I  would  have  my  life  again, 
And  live  it  over  if  I  could. 

Not  every  hope  for  me  has  proved 
A  house  on  weak  foundation  built ; 

I  have  not  seen  the  feet  I  loved 
Caught  in  the  awful  snares  of  guilt. 

But  when  I  see  the  paths  so  hard 
Kept  soft  and  smooth  in  days  gone 

by; 
The   lives   that   years    have   made   or 

marred, 
Out  of  my  loneliness  I  cry : 

Oh,  for  the  friends  that  made  so  bright 
The  days,  alas  !  too  soon  to  wane  ! 

Oh,  but  to  be  one  hour  to-night 
Set  in  their  midst,  a  child  again  ! 


THE  PLAYMATES. 

Two  careless,  happy  children, 
Up  when  the  east  was  red, 

And  never  tired  and  never  still 
Till  the  sun  had  gone  to  bed  ; 


Helping  the  winds  in  winter 

To  toss  the  snows  about  ; 
Gathering  the  early  flowers, 

When  spring-time  called  them  out  ; 
Playing  among  the  windrows 

Where  the  mowers  mowed  the  hay ; 
Finding  the  place  where  the  skylark 

Had  hidden  her  nest  away  ; 
Treading  the  cool,  damp  furrows 

Behind  the  shining  plough  ; 
Up  in  the  barn  with  the  swallows, 

And  sliding  over  the  mow  ; 
Pleased  with  the  same  old  stories, 

Heard  a  thousand  times  ; 
Believing  all  the  wonders 

Written  in  tales  or  rhymes  ; 
Counting  the  hours  in  summer 

When  even  a  day  seemed  long  ; 
Counting  the  hours  in  winter 

Till  the  time  of  leaves  and  song. 
Thinking  it  took  forever 

For  little  children  to  grow, 
And  that  seventy  years  of  a  life-time 

Never  could  come  and  go. 
Oh,   I    know    they  were    happier  chil 
dren 

Than  the  world  again  may  see, 
For  one  was  my  little  playmate, 

And  one,  ah  !  one  was  me  ! 

A  sad-faced  man  and  woman, 

Leagues  and  leagues  apart, 
Doing  their  work  as  best  they  may 

With  weary  hand  and  heart  ; 
Shrinking  from  winter's  tempests, 

And  summer's  burning  heat  ; 
Thinking  that  skies  were  brighter 

And  flowers  were  once  more  sweet ; 
Wondering  why  the  skylark 

So  early  tries  his  wings  ; 
And  if  green  fields  are  hidden 

Beyond  the  gate  where  he  sings  ! 
Feeling  that  time  is  slipping 

Faster  and  faster  away  ; 
That  a  day  is  but  as  a  moment, 

And  the  years  of  life  as  a  day  ; 
Seeing  the  heights  and  places 

Others  have  reached  and  won  ; 
Sighing  o'er  things  accomplished, 

And  things  that  are  left  undone  ; 
And  yet  still  trusting,  somehow, 

In  his  own  good  time  to  become 
Again  as  little  children, 

In  their  Heavenly  Father's  home  ; 
One  crowding  memories  backward, 

In  the  busy,  restless  mart, 
One  pondering  on  them  ever, 

And  keeping  them  in  her  heart ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


347 


Going  on  by  their  separate  pathways 

To  the  same  eternity  — 
And  one  of  these  is  my  playmate, 

And  one,  alas  !  is  me  ! 


;THE   BAREFOOT  BOY.' 


AH  ! 


'  Barefoot   Boy  !  "   you  have  led 
me  back 

O'er  the  waste  of  years  profound, 
To  the  still,  sweet  spots,  which  memory 

Hath  kept  as  haunted  ground. 
You  have  led  me  back  to  the  western 

hills, 
Where  I  played  through  the  summer 

hours  ; 

And  called  my  little  playmate  up, 
To  stand  among  the  flowers. 


hand 


the   fields 


We    are    hand 
again, 

We  are  treading  through  the  dew  ! 
And  not  the  poet's  "barefoot  boy," 

Nor  him  the  artist  drew, 
Is  half  so  brave  and  bold  and  good, 

Though  bright  their  colors  glow, 
As  the  darling  playmate  that  I  had 

And  lost,  so  long  ago  ! 

I  touch  the  spring-time's  tender  grass, 

I  find  the  daisy  buds  ; 
I  feel  the  shadows  deep  and  cool, 

In  the  heart  of  the  summer  woods  ; 
I  see  the  ripened  autumn  nuts, 

Like  thick  hail  strew  the  earth  ; 
I  catch  the  fall  of  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  glow  of  the  cheerful  hearth  ! 

But  alas  !  my  playmate,  loved  and  lost, 

My  heart  is  full  of  tears, 
For  the  dead  and  buried  hopes,  that  are 
more 

Than  our  dead  and  buried  years  : 
And  I  cannot  see  the  poet's  rhymes, 

Nor  the  lines  the  artist  drew, 
But  only  the  boy  that  held  my  hand, 

And  led  my  feet  through  the  dew  ! 


WINTER  FLOWERS. 

THOUGH    Nature's   lonesome,    leafless 

bowers, 

With     winter's     awful     snows     are 
white, 


The  tender  smell  of  leaves  and  flowers 
Makes    May-time   in    my   room   to 


night  : 


While  some,  in  homeless  poverty, 
Shrink    moaning    from     the     bitter 
blast ; 

WThat  am  I,  that  my  lines  should  be 
In  good  and  pleasant  places  cast  ? 

When  other  souls  despairing  stand, 
And  plead  with  famished  lips  to-day, 

Why  is  it  that  a  loving  hand 

Should  scatter  blossoms  in  my  way  ? 

O  flowers,  with  soft  and  dewy  eyes, 
To  God  my  gratitude  reveal  ; 

Send  up  your  incense  to  the  skies, 
And  utter,  for  me,  what  I  feel  ! 

O  innocent  roses,  in  your  buds 

Hiding  for  very  modesty  ; 
O  violets,  smelling  of  the  woods, 

Thank  Him,  with  all  your  sweets  for 

me  ! 

And  tell  him,  I  would  give  this  hour 
All  that  is  mine  of  good  beside, 

To  have  the  pure  heart  of  a  flower, 
That  has  no  stain  of  sin  to  hide. 


MARCH   CROCUSES. 

0  FICKLE  and  uncertain  March, 
How  could  you  have  the  heart, 

To  make  the  tender  crocuses 
From  their  beds  untimely  start  ? 

Those  foolish,  unsuspecting  flowers, 

Too  credulous  to  see 
That  the  sweetest  promises  of  March 

Are  not  May's  certainty. 

When  you   smiled  a  few  short  hours 
ago, 

What  said  your  whisper,  light, 
That  made  them  lift  their  pretty  heads 

So  hopeful  and  so  bright  ? 

1  could  not  catch  a  single  word, 
But  I  saw  your  light  caress  ; 

And  heard  your  rough  voice  softened 

down 
To  a  lover's  tenderness. 

O  cruel  and  perfidious  month, 
It  makes  me  sick  and  sad, 


348 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


To  think  how  yesterday  your  smile 
Made  all  tlfe  blossoms  glad  ! 

O  trustful,  unsuspecting  flowers, 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  know, 

That  all  your  golden  heads  to-day 
Are  underneath  the  snow  ! 


HOMESICK. 

COMFORT  me  with  apples  ! 

I  am  sick  unto  death,  I  am  sad  to  de 
spair  ; 

My  trouble  is  more  than  my  strength 
is  to  bear  ; 

Back  again  to  the  green  hills  that  first 
met  my  sight 

I  come,  as  a  child  to  its    mother,  to 
night  ;  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Bring  the    ripe    mellow  fruit  from  the 
early  "  sweet  bough,"  - 

(Is  the  tree  that  we  used  to  climb  grow 
ing  there  now  ?) 

And  "  russets,"  whose  cheeks   are  as 
freckled  and  dun 

As  the  cheeks  of  the  children  that  play 

in  the  sun  ;  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Gather  those  streaked   with   red,  that 

we  named  '•  morning-light." 
Our  good  father  set,  when  his  hair  had 

grown  white, 
The   tree,   though    he    said   when    he 

planted  the  root, 
"  The  hands  of  another   shall  gather 

the  fruit  ;  " 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Go  down  to  the  end  of  the  orchard,  and 

bring 
The  fair  "  lady-fingers  "  that  grew  by 

the  spring  ; 
Pale  "  bell-flowers,"  and  u  pippins,"  all 

burnished  with  gold, 
Like  the  fruit  the  Hesperides  guarded 

of  old  ;- 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Get  the  sweet  "junietta,"  so  loved  by 
the  bees, 


And  the  "  pearmain,"  that  grew  on  the 

queen  of  the  trees  ; 
And  close   by  the   brook,   where  they 

hang  ripe  and  lush, 
Go  and  shake  down  the  best  of  them 

all,  —  "  maiden's-blush  ;  "  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
For  lo  !  I  am  sick  ;  I  am  sad  and  op- 

prest ; 
I  come  back  to  the  place  where,  a  child, 

I  was  blest. 
Hope  is  false,  love  is  vain,  for  the  old 

things  I  sigh  ; 
And  if  these  cannot  comfort  me,  then 

I  must  die  ! 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 


"FIELD  PREACHING." 

I   HAVE  been  out  to-day  in  field  and 

wood, 
Listening  to  praises  sweet  and  counsel 

good 
Such  as  a  little  child  had  understood, 

That,  in  its  tender  youth, 
Discerns  the  simple  eloquence  of  truth. 

The  modest  blossoms,  crowding  round 

my  way, 
Though   they   had    nothing    great    or 

grand  to  say, 
Gave  out  their  fragrance  to  the  wind 

all  day  ; 

Because  his  loving  breath, 
With  soft  persistence,  won  them  back 

from  death. 

And  the  right  royal  lily,  putting  on 
Her    robes,   more    rich    than   those  of 

Solomon, 
Opened    her   gorgeous    missal   in    the 

sun, 

And  thanked  Him,  soft  and  low, 
Whose     gracious,    liberal    hand     had 

clothed  her  so. 

When  wearied,  on  the  meadow-grass  I 

sank  ; 
So  narrow  was   the  rill  from  which  I 

drank, 
An   infant    might   have   stepped   from 

bank  to  bank  ; 
And  the  tall  rushes  near 
Lapping  together,  hid  its  waters  clear. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


349 


Yet  to  the  ocean  joyously  it  went ; 

And  rippling  in  the    fullness  of   con 
tent, 

Watered  the  pretty  flowers  that  o'er  it 

leant ; 
For  all  the  banks  were  spread 

With  delicate  flowers  that  on  its  bounty 
fed. 

The  stately  maize,  a  fair  and  goodly 
sight, 

With     serried     spear-points     bristling 
sharp  and  bright, 

Shook  out  his  yellow  tresses,  for  de 
light, 
To  all  their  tawny  length, 

Like    Samson,    glorying    in   his    lusty 
strength. 

And  every  little  bird  upon  the  tree, 

Ruffling   his   plumage    bright,   for   ec 
stasy, 

Sang  in  the  wild  insanity  of  glee  ; 
And  seemed,  in  the  same  lays, 

Calling  his  mate  and  uttering  songs  of 
praise. 

The  golden  grasshopper  did  chirp  and 
sing; 

The  plain  bee,  busy  with  her  house 
keeping, 

Kept    humming    cheerfully   upon    the 

wing, 
As  if  she  understood 

That,  with   contentment,  labor  was  a 
good, 

I  saw  each  creature,  in  his  own  best 

place, 

To  the  Creator  lift  a  smiling  face, 
Praising      continually     his     wondrous 

grace  ; 

As  if  the  best  of  all 
Life's  countless  blessings  was  to  live  at 

all! 

So  with  a  book  of  sermons,  plain  and 

true, 
Hid  in  my  heart,  where   I  might  turn 

them  through, 
I  went  home  softly,  through  the  falling 

dew, 

Still  listening,  rapt  and  calm, 
To    Nature    giving    out    her    evening 

psalm. 

While,  far  along  the  west,  mine  eyes 
discerned, 


Where,  lit  by  God,  the  fires  of  sunset 
burned, 

The   tree-tops,  unconsumed,  to   flame 

were  turned  ; 
And  I,  in  that  great  hush, 

Talked  with  his  angels  in  each  burn 
ing  bush  ! 


GATHERING  BLACKBERRIES. 

LITTLE  Daisy  smiling  wakes 
From  her  sleep  as  morning  breaks, 

Why,  she  knoweth  well  ; 
Yet  if  you  should  ask  her,  surely 
She  would  answer  you  demurely, 

That  she  cannot  tell. 

Careful  Daisy,  with  no  sound, 
Slips  her  white  feet  to  the  ground, 

Saying,  very  low, 

She  must  rise  and  help  her  mother, 
And  be  ready,  if  her  brother 

Needs  her  aid,  to  go  ! 

Foolish  Daisy,  o'er  her  lips 
Only  that  poor  falsehood  slips, 

Truth  is  in  her  cheeks  ; 
Her  own  words  cannot  deceive  her, 
Her  own  heart  will  not  believe  her 

In  a  blush  it  speaks. 

Daisy  knows  that,  when  the  heat 
Dries  the  dew  upon  the  wheat, 

She  will  be  away  ; 
She  and  Ernest,  just  another 
Who,  she  says,  is  like  a  brother, 

Making  holiday. 

For  the  blackberries  to-day 
Will  be  ripe,  the  reapers  say, 

Ripe  as  they  can  be  ; 
And  not  wholly  for  the  pleasure, 
But  lest  others  find  the  treasure, 

She  must  go  and  see. 

Eager  Daisy,  at  the  gate 
Meeting  Ernest,  scarce  can  wait, 

But  she  checks  her  heart  ; 
And   she   says,    her   soft   eyes   beam 
ing 
With  an  innocent,  grave  seeming  ; 

"  Is  it  time  to  start  ?  " 

Cunning  Daisy  tries  to  go 
Very  womanly  and  slow, 
And  to  act  so  well 


350 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


That,  if  any  one  had  seen  them, 
With  the  dusty  road  between  them, 
What  was  there  to  tell  ? 

Happy  Daisy,  when  they  gain 
The  green  windings  of  the  lane, 

Where  the  hedge  is  thick  ; 
For  they  find,  beneath  its  shadow, 
Wild  sweet  roses  in  the  meadow, 

More  than  they  can  pick. 

Bending  low,  and  rising  higher, 
Scarlet  pinks  their  lamps  of  fire 

Lightly  swing  about  ; 
And  the  wind  that  blows  them  over 
Out  of  sight  among  the  clover, 

Seems  to  blow  them  out  ! 

Doubting  Daisy,  as  she  hies 
Toward  the  field  of  berries,  cries  : 

"  What  if  they  be  red  ?  " 
Black  and  ripe  they  find  them  rather, 
Black  and  ripe  enough  to  gather, 

As  the  reapers  said. 

Lucky  Daisy,  Ernest  finds 
Berries  for  her  in  the  vines, 

Hidden  where  she  stands  ; 
And  with  fearless  arm  he  pushes 
Back  the  cruel,  briery  bushes, 

That  would  hurt  her  hands. 

He  would  have  her  hold  her  cup 
Just  for  him  to  fill  it  up, 

But  away  she  trips  ; 
Picking  daintily,  she  lingers 
Till  she  dyes  her  pretty  fingers 

Redder  than  her  lips. 

Thoughtful  Daisy,  what  she  hears, 
What  she  hopes,  or  what  she  fears, 

Who  of  us  can  tell  ? 
For  if,  going  home,  she  carries 
Richer  treasure  than  her  berries, 

She  will  guard  it  well  ! 

Puzzled  Daisy  does  not  know 
Why  the  sun,  who  rises  slow, 

Hurries  overhead  ; 
He,  that  lingered  at  the  morning, 
Drops   at   night   with  scarce  a  warn 
ing 

On  his  cloudy  bed. 

All  too  narrow  at  the  start 
Seemed  the  path,  they  kept  apart, 
Though  the  way  was  rough  ; 


Now  the  path,  that  through  the  hollow 
Closely  side  by  side  they  follow, 
Seemeth  wide  enough. 

Hopeful  Daisy,  will  the  days 
That  are  brightening  to  her  gaze 

Brighter  grow  than  this  ? 
Will  she,  mornings  without  number, 
Wake  up  restless  from  her  slumber, 
Just  for  happiness  ? 

Will  the  friend  so  kind  to-day, 
Always  push  the  thorns  away, 
With  which  earth  is  rife  ? 
Will  he  be  her  true,  true  lover, 
Will  he  make  her  cup  run  over 
With  the  wine  of  life  ? 

Blessed  Daisy,  will  she  be, 
If  above  mortality 

Thus  she  stands  apart ; 
Cursed,  if  the  hand,  unsparing, 
Let  the  thorns  fly  backward,  tearing 

All  her  bleeding  heart ! 

Periled  Daisy,  none  can  know 
What  the  future  has  to  show ; 

There  must  come  what  must : 
But,  if  blessings  be  forbidden, 
Let  the  truth  awhile  be  hidden  — 

Let  her  hope  and  trust. 

Let  all  women  born  to  weep, 

Their  heart's  breaking  —  all  who  keep 

Hearts  still  young  and  whole, 
Pray,  as  fearing  no  denying, 
Pray  with  me,  as  for  the  dying, 

For  this  maiden's  soul  ! 


OUR   HOMESTEAD. 

OUR  old  brown  homestead  reared  its 

walls 

From  the  way-side  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost 

cast 

Their  fruit  upon  its  roof  ; 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

That  when  awake  I  've  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I  've  heard  the 

limbs 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane  ; 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh  those  or 
chard  trees  ! 

I  've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


35 


The  sweet-brier,  under  the  window-sill, 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 
And  the  damask  rose,  by  the  garden- 
fence, 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I  've   looked   at   many  a  flower   since 

then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier 

But  not  to  me  so  fair  ; 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh  those  roses 

bright  ! 
I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's 

locks, 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight. 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And   the   cool   drops  down   from   the 

mossy  stones 
Were  falling  constantly  ; 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  the  draught  which  filled  my  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old 

sweep 

That  my  father's  hand  set  up. 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh  that  deep 

old  well  ! 

I  remember  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 
Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet  ; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always 

kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet  ; 
And    there    I  've    sat   on    my   father's 

knee,    % 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand   in   his    raven 

hair,  — 

That  hair  is  silver  now  ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh  that 

broad  hearth's  light  ! 
And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's 

smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night  ! 


SPRING   AFTER   THE   WAR. 

COME,  loveliest  season  of  the  year, 
And  every  quickened  pulse  shall  beat, 

Your  footsteps  in  the  grass  to  hear, 
And  feel  your  kisses,  soft  and  sweet  ! 

Come,  and  bestow  new  happiness 
Upon  the  heart  that  hopeful  thrills  ; 


Sing  with  the  lips  that  sing  for  bliss, 
And  laugh  with  children  on  the  hills. 

Lead  dancing  streams  through  mead 
ows  green, 

And  in  the  deep,  deserted  dells 
Where  poets  love  to  walk  unseen, 
Plant     flowers,    with     all    delicious 
smells. 

To  humble  cabins  kindly  go, 

And  train  your  shady  vines,  to  creep 
About  the  porches,  cool  and  low, 

Where  mothers  rock  their  babes  to 
sleep. 

But   come  with  hushed   and   reverent 

tread, 
And  bring  your  gifts,  most  pure  and 

sweet, 

To  hallowed  places  where  our  dead 
Are  sleeping  underneath  your  feet. 

There  let  the  turf  be  lightly  pressed, 
And  be  your  tears  that  softly  flow 

The  sweetest,  and  the  sacredest, 
That  ever  pity  shed  for  woe  ! 

Scatter  your  holiest  drop  of  dew, 
Sing  hymns  of  sacred  melody  ; 

And  keep  your  choicest  flowers  to  strew 
The  places  where  our  heroes  lie. 

But  most  of  all,  go  watch  about 

The  unknown  beds  of  such  as  sleep, 

Where  love  can  never  find  them  out, 
Nor  faithful  friendship  come  to  weep. 

Go  where  the  ocean  moans  and  cries, 
For    those    her    waters    hide    from 

sight  ; 

And  where  the  billows  heave  and  rise. 
Scatter    the    flowery    foam-wreaths, 
white. 

Aye,  all  your  dearest  treasures  keep  ; 

We  shall  not  miss  them,  but  instead 
Will  give  them  joyfully,  to  heap 

The  holy  altars  of  our  dead  ! 

The  poet  from  his  wood-paths  wild, 
I  know  will  take  his  sweetest  flower, 

The  mother,  singing  to  her  child, 
Will  strip  the  green  vines  from  her 
bower  ; 

The  poor  man  from  his  garden  bed 
The  unpretending  blooms  will  spare  ; 


352 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


The  lover  give  the  roses  red 

He  gathered  for  his  darling's  hair. 

Yea,  all  thy  gifts  we  love  and  prize 
We  ask  thee  reverently  to  bring, 

And  lay  them  on  the  darkened  eyes, 
That  wait  their  everlasting  spring  ! 


THE  BOOK  OF  NATURE. 

WE   scarce  could   doubt   our   Father's 
power, 

Though  his  greatness  were  untold 
In  the  sacred  record  made  for  us 

By  the  prophet-bards  of  old. 

We  must  have  felt  his  watchfulness 

About  us  everywhere  ; 
Though    we   had   not   learned,  in   the 
Holy  Word, 

How  He  keeps  us  in  his  care. 

I    almost   think   we   should   know  his 

love, 

And  dream  of  his  pardoning  grace, 
If  we  never  had  read  how  the  Saviour 

came, 
To  die  for  a  sinful  race. 

For  the  sweetest  parables  of  truth 

In  our  daily  pathway  lie, 
And  we  read,  without  interpreter, 

The  writing  on  the  sky. 

The   ravens,   fed   when    they   clamor, 

teach 

The  human  heart  to  trust ; 
And  the  rain  of  goodness  speaks,  as  it 

falls 
On  the  unjust  and  the  just. 

The  sunshine  drops,  like  a  leaf  of  gold, 
From  the  book  of  light  above  ; 

And  the  lily's  missal  is  written  full 
Of  the  words  of  a  Father's  love. 

So,    when   we    turn   from   the    sacred 
page 

Where  the  holy  record  lies, 
And  its  gracious  plans  and  promises 

Are  hidden  from  our  eyes  ; 

One  open  volume  still  is  ours, 

To  read  and  understand  ; 
And  its  living  characters  are  writ 

By  our  Father's  loving  hand  ! 


SUGAR-MAKING. 

THE  crocus  rose  from  her  snowy  bed 
As  she  felt  the  spring's  caresses, 

And  the  willow  from  her  graceful  head 
Shook  out  her  yellow  tresses. 

Through  the  crumbling  walls  of  his  icy 
cell 

Stole  the  brook,  a  happy  rover; 
And  he  made  a  noise  like  a  silver  bell 

In  running  under  and  over. 

The  earth  was  pushing  the   old  dead 

grass 

With  lily  hand  from  her  bosom, 
And  the  sweet  brown  buds  of  the  sas 
safras 
Could  scarcely  hide  the  blossom. 

And  breaking  nature's  solitude 

Came   the  axe  strokes  clearly  ring 
ing, 

For  the  chopper  was  busy  in  the  wood 
Ere  the  early  birds  were  singing. 

All  day  the  hardy  settler  now 
At  his  tasks  was  toiling  steady  ; 

His  fields  were  cleared,  and  his  shin 
ing  plow 
Was  set  by  the  furrow  ready. 

And  down  in  the  woods,  where  the  sun 

appeared 

Through  the  naked  branches  break 
ing* 

His  rustic  cabin  had  been  reared 
For  the  time  of  sugar-making. 

And   now,  as   about  it  he   came   and 

went, 

Cheerfully  planning  and  toiling, 
His  good  child  sat  there,  with  eyes  in 
tent 
On  the  fire  and  the  kettles  boiling. 

With  the  beauty  Nature  gave  as  her 
dower, 

And  the  artless  grace  she  taught  her, 
The  woods  could  boast  no  fairer  flower, 

Than  Rose,  the  settler's  daughter. 

She  watched  the  pleasant  fire  anear, 
And  her  father  coming  and  going, 

And  her  thoughts  were  all  as  sweet  and 

clear 
As  the  drops  his  pail  o'erflowing. 


POEMS   OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


353 


For  she  scarce  had  dreamed  of  earthly 
ills, 

And  love  had  never  found  her  ; 
She  lived  shut  in  by  the  pleasant  hills 

That  stood  as  a  guard  around  her  ; 

And  she  might  have  lived  the  self-same 
way 

Through  all  the  springs  to  follow, 
But  for  a  youth,  who  came  one  day 

Across  her  in  the  hollow. 

He  did  not  look  like  a  wicked  man, 
And  yet,  when  he  saw  that  blossom, 

He  said,  "  I  will  steal  this  Rose  if  I  can, 
And  hide  it  in  my  bosom." 

That   he   could  be  tired  you  had   not 

guessed 

Had  you  seen  him  lightly  walking  ; 
But  he  must  have  been,  for  he  stopped 

to  rest 
So  long  that  they  fell  to  talking. 

Alas  !  he  was  athirst,  he  said, 

Yet  he  feared  there  was  no  slaking 

The  deep  and  quenchless  thirst  he  had 
For  a  draught  beyond  his  taking. 

Then   she  filled  the  cup  and  gave  to 
him. 

The  settler's  blushing  daughter, 
And  he  looked  at  her  across  the  brim 

As  he  slowly  drank  the  water. 

And  he  sighed  as  he  put  the  cup  away, 
For  lips  and  soul  were  drinking  ; 

But  what  he  drew  from  her  eyes  that 

day 
Was  the  sweetest,  to  his  thinking. 

I  do  not  know  if  her  love  awoke 
Before  his  words  awoke  it  ; 

If  she  guessed  at  his  before  he  spoke, 
Or  not  until  he  spoke  it. 

But  howsoe'er  she  made  it  known, 
And  howsoe'er  he  told  her, 

Each  unto  each  the  heart  had  shown 
When  the  year  was  little  older. 
23 


For  oft  he  came  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  to  taste  of  the  sugar-water  ; 

And  she  was  a  settler's  wife  next  year 
Who  had  been  a  settler's  daughter. 

And  now  their  days  are  fair  and  fleet 
As  the  days  of  sugar  weather, 

While  they  drink  the  water,  clear  and 

sweet, 
Of  the  cup  of  life  together. 


SPRING  FLOWERS.1 

0  SWEET  and  charitable  friend, 
Your  gift  of  fragrant  bloom 

Has  brought  the  spring-time  and  the 

woods, 
To  cheer  my  lonesome  room. 

It  rests  my  weary,  aching  eyes, 
And  soothes  my  heart  and  brain  ; 

To  see  the  tender  green  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  blossoms  wet  with  rain. 

I   I  know  not  which  I  love  the  most, 
Nor  which  the  comeliest  shows, 

I   The  timid,  bashful  violet, 
Or  the  royal-hearted  rose  : 

The  pansy  in  her  purple  dress, 
The  pink  with  cheek  of  red, 
j   Or  the  faint,  fair  heliotrope,  who  hangs, 
Like  a  bashful  maid,  her  head. 

I 

j   For  I  love  and  prize  you  one  and  all, 

From  the  least  low  bloom  of  spring 
j  To  the  lily  fair,  whose  clothes  outshine 

The  raiment  of  a  king. 

And  when  my  soul  considers  these, 
The  sweet,  the  grand,  the  gay, 

1  marvel  how  we  shall  be  clothed 
With  fairer  robes  than  they  ; 

And  almost  long  to  sleep,  and  rise 
And  gain  that  fadeless  shore, 

And  put  immortal  splendor  on, 
And  live,  to  die  no  more. 

1  The  last  poem  written  by  Phoebe  Gary. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


AMY'S    LOVE-LETTER. 

TURNING  some  papers  carelessly 
That    were    hid    away    in    a    desk 
unused, 

I  came  upon  something  yesterday 
O'er  which  I  pondered  and  mused  : 

A  letter,  faded  now  and  dim, 

And  stained  in  places,  as  if  by  tears  ; 
And  yet  I  had  hardly  thought  of  him 

Who  traced  its  pages  for  years. 

Though   once   the   happy   tears  made 

dim 
My  eyes,  and   my  blushing  cheeks 

grew  hot, 

To  have  but  a  single  word  from  him, 
Fond  or  foolish,  no  matter  what. 

If  he  ever  quoted  another's  rhymes, 
Poor   in    themselves    and    common 
place, 

I  said  them  over  a  thousand  times, 
As  if  he  had  lent  them  a  grace. 

The  single  color  that  pleased  his  taste 
Was  the  only  one  I   would  have,  or 
wear, 

Even  in  the  girdle  about  my  waist 
Or  the  ribbon  that  bound  my  hair. 

Then  my  flowers  were  the  self-same 
kind  and  hue  ; 

And  yet  how  strangely  one  forgets  — 
I  cannot  think  which  one  of  the  two 

It  was,  or  roses  or  violets  ! 

But  oh,  the  visions  I  knew  and  nursed, 
While  I  walked  in  a  world   unseen 
before  '! 


For  my  world  began  when  I  knew  him 

first, 

And   must   end   when   he   came   no 
more. 

We  would  have  died  for  each  other's 

sake, 
Would   have  given   all   else   in   the 

world  below  ; 
And   we   said   and   thought    that    our 

hearts  would  break 
When  we  parted,  years  ago. 

How  the  pain  as  well  as  the  rapture 

seems 

A  shadowy  thing  I  scarce  recall, 
Passed    wholly    out    of    my    life   and 

dreams, 
As  though  it  had  never  been  at  all. 

And  is  this  the  end,  and  is  here  the 

grave 

Of  our  steadfast  love  and  our  change 
less  faith 

About  which  the  poets  sing  and  rave, 
Naming  it  strong  as  death  ? 

At  least  'tis  what  mine  has  come  to 

at  last, 

Stript    of    all   charm    and    all    dis 
guise  ; 
And  I  wonder  if,  when  he  thinks  of  the 

past, 
He  thinks  we  were  foolish  or  wise  ? 

Well,    I    am    content,    so    it    matters 

not  ; 
And,  speaking  about  him,  some  one 

said  — 

I  wish  I  could  only  remember  what  — 
But  he  's  either  married  or  dead. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE   AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


355 


DO   YOU    BLAME    HER? 

NE'ER  lover  spake  in  tenderer  words, 
While  mine  were  calm,  unbroken  ; 

Though  I  suffered  all  the  pain  I  gave 
In  the  No,  so  firmly  spoken. 

I  marvel  what  he  would  think  of  me, 
Who  called  it  a  cruel  sentence, 

If  he  knew  I  had  almost  learned  to-day 
What  it  is  to  feel  repentance. 

For  it  seems  like  a  strange  perversity, 
And  blind  beyond  excusing, 

To  lose  the  thing  we  could  have  kept, 
And  after,  mourn  the  losing. 

And  this,  the  prize  I  might  have  won, 
Was  worth  a  queen's  obtaining  ; 

And  one,  if  far  beyond  my  reach, 
I  had  sighed,  perchance,  for  gaining. 

And  I  know  —  ah  !  no  one  knows  so 

well, 

Though  my  heart  is  far  from  break 
ing— 
'T  was  a  loving  heart,  and  an  honest 

hand, 
I  might  have  had  for  the  taking. 

And  yet,  though  never  one  beside 
Has  place  in  my  thought  above  him, 

I  only  like  him  when  he  is  by, 
'T  is  when  he  is  gone  I  love  him. 

Sadly  of  absence  poets  sing, 

And  timid  lovers  fear  it  ; 
But  an  idol  has  been  worshiped  less 

Sometimes  when  we  came  too  near 
it. 

And  for  him  my  fancy  throws  to-day 

A  thousand  graces  o  'er  him  ; 
For  he   seems   a  god  when  he  stands 

afar 

And  I  kneel  in  my  thought   before 
him.     » 

But  if  he  were  here,  and  knelt  to  me 
With  a  lover's  fond  persistence, 

Would  the  halo  brighten  to  my  eyes 
That   crowns    him   now  in    the  dis 
tance  ? 

Could  I  change  the  words  I  have  said, 

and  say 
Till  one  of  us  two  shall  perish, 


Forsaking  others,  I  take  this  man 
Alone,  to  love  and  to  cherish  ? 

Alas  !  whatever  beside  to-day 

I  might  dream  like  a  fond  romancer, 

I  know  my  heart  so  well  that  I  know 
I    should   give    him    the    self-same 
answer. 


SONG. 

LAUGH  out,  O  stream,  from  your  bed 
of  green, 

Where  you  lie  in  the  sun's  embrace  ; 
And  talk  to  the  reeds  that  o'er  you  lean 

To  touch  your  dimpled  face  ; 
But  let  your  talk  be  sweet  as  it  will, 

And  your  laughter  be  as  gay, 
You   cannot  laugh  as   I   laugh  in  my 
heart, 

For  my  lover  will  come  to-day  ! 

Sing  sweet,  little  bird,  sing  out  to  your 

mate 

That  hides  in  the  leafy  grove ; 
Sing  clear   and   tell    him  for  him  you 

wait, 

And  tell  him  of  all  your  love  ; 
But  though  you  sing  till  you  shake  the 

buds 

And  the  tender  leaves  of  May, 
My  spirit  thrills  with  a  sweeter  song, 
For  my  lover  must  come  to-day  ! 

Come  up,  O  winds,  come  up  from  the 

south 

With  eager  hurrying  feet, 
And  kiss  your  red  rose  on  her  mouth 
In   the    bower   where    she    blushes 

sweet ; 
But     you    cannot    kiss    your    darling 

flower. 

Though  you  clasp  her  as  you  may, 
As  I  kiss  in  my  thought  the  lover  dear 
I  shall  hold  in  my  arms  to-day  ! 


SOMEBODY'S  LOVERS. 

Too  meek  by  half  was  he  who  came 

A-wooing  me  one  morn, 
For  he  thought  so  little  of  himself 

I  learned  to  share  his  scorn. 

At  night  I  had  a  suitor,  vain 
As  the  vainest  in  the  land  ; 


356 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Almost  he  seemed  to  condescend 
In  the  offer  of  his  hand. 

In  one  who  pressed  his  suit  I  missed 

Courage  and  manly  pride  ; 
And  how  could  I  think  of  such  a  one 

As  a  leader  and  a  guide  ? 

And  then  there  came  a  worshiper 
With  such  undoubting  trust, 

That   when    he    knelt  he  seemed  not 

worth 
Upraising  from  the  dust. 

The  next  was  never  in  the  wrong, 
Was  not  too  smooth  nor  rough  ; 

So  faultless  and  so  good  was  he, 
That  that  was  fault  enough. 

But  one,  the  last  of  all  who  came, 

I  know  not  how  to  paint  ; 
No  angel  do  I  seem  to  him  — 

He  scarcely  calls  me  saint  ! 

He  hath  such  sins  and  weaknesses 

As  mortal  man  befall  ; 
He  hath  a  thousand  faults,  and  yet 

I  love  him  with  them  all  ! 

He  never  asked  me  yea  nor  nay, 

Nor  knelt  to  me  one  hour  ; 
But  he  took  my  heart,  and  holds  my 
heart 

With  a  lover's  tender  power. 

And  I  bow,  as  needs  I  must,  and  say, 

In  proud  humility, 

Love's   might  is   right,  and  I  yield  at 
last 

To  manhood's  royalty  ! 


ON  THE   RIVER. 

DARLING,  while  the  tender  moon 
Of  this  soft,  delicious  June, 

Watches  o'er  thee  like  a  lover  ; 
While  we  journey  to  the  sea, 
Silently, 

Let  me  tell  my  story  over. 

Ah  !  how  clear  before  my  sight 
Rises  up  that  summer  night, 

When  I  told  thee  first  my  passion  ; 
And  the  little  crimson  streak, 
In  thy  cheek, 

Showed  thy  love  in  comeliest  fashion. 


When  I  pleaded  for  reply, 
Silent  lip  and  downcast  eye, 

Turning  from  me  both  dissembled  ; 
But  the  lily  hand  that  shone 
In  mine  own, 

Like  a  lily  softly  trembled. 

And  the  pretty  words  that  passed 

O'er  thy  coral  lips  at  last, 
Still  as  precious  pearls  I  treasure  ; 

And  the  payment  lovers  give, 

While  I  live, 
Shall  be  given  thee  without  measure. 

For  I  may  not  offer  thee 

Such  poor  words  as  mine  must  be  ; 
I  perforce  must  speak  my  blisses 

In  the  language  of  mine  eyes, 

Mixed  with  sighs, 
And  the  tender  speech  of  kisses. 

Heart,  encompassed  in  my  heart ! 

Hopeful,  happy  as  thou  art, 
Will  I  keep  and  ne'er  forsake  thee  ; 

Yea,  my  love  shall  hold  thee  fast, 

Till  the  last, 
So  that  heaven  alone  can  take  thee  ! 

And  if  sorrow  ever  spread 
Threatening  showers  o'er  thy  head, 

All  about  thee  will  I  gather, 
Whatsoever  things  are  bright, 
That  thy  sight 

May  be  tempted  earthward  rather  ; 

From  thy  pathway,  for  love's  sake, 
Carefully  my  hand  will  take, 

Every  thorn  anear  it  growing  ; 
And  my  lamb  within  my  arms, 
Safe  from  harms, 

Will  I  shield  when  winds  are  blowing. 

Fairest  woman,  holiest  saint  ! 

If  my  words  of  praise  could  paint 
Thee,  as  liberal  Nature  made  thee  ; 

All  who  saw  my  picture,  sweet, 

Would  repeat, 
"  He  who  painted,  loved  the  lady  !  " 

Has  the  wide  world  anything 
Thou  wilt  take  or  I  may  bring, 

I  will  treat  no  work  disdainful  ; 
Set  me  some  true  lover's  task, 
Dearest,  ask 

Any  service,  sweet  or  painful. 

If  it  please  thee,  over  me, 
Practice  petty  tyranny, 


POEMS   OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


357 


Punish  me  as  for  misdoing, 
Let  me  make  of  penitence 

Sad  pretense, 
At  thy  feet  for  pardon  suing. 

Darling,  all  our  life  must  be, 
Thou  with  me,  and  I  with  thee, 

Calm  as  this  delicious  weather; 
We  will  keep  our  honeymoon 
Every  June, 

Voyaging  through  life  together. 

You  and  me,  we  used  to  say, 
We  were  two  but  yesterday  ; 

We  were  as  the  sea  and  river  ; 

Now  our  lives  have  all  the  sweetness, 
And  completeness 

Of  two  souls  made  one  forever  ! 


INCONSTANCY. 

ALL  in  a  dreary  April  day, 

When    the    light    of    my    sky   was 

changed  to  gloom, 

My  first  love  drooped  and  faded  away, 
While  I   sorrowed   over  its   waning 
bloom. 

And  I  buried  it,  saying  bitterly, 

As  I  watered  its  grave  with  a  rain  of 

tears  ; 

"  No  flower  of  love  will  bloom  for  me 
Save    this    one,    dead    in    my    early 
years  !  " 

But  the  May-time  pushes  the  April  out, 
And  the  summer  of  life  succeeds  the 

May  ; 
And  the  heaviest  clouds  of  grief  and 

doubt, 
In  weeping,  weep  themselves  away. 

And  ere  I  had  ceased  to  mourn  above 

My  cherished  flower's  untimely  tomb. 
Right  out  of  the  grave  of  that  buried 

love 

There    sprang    another    and    fairer 
bloom. 

And  I    cried,    "  Sleep   softly,  my  per 
ished  rose, 

My  pretty  bud  of  an  April  hour  ; 
While  I  live  in  the  beauty  that  burns 

and  glows, 

In  the  summer  heart  of  my  passion 
flower  !  " 


LOVE   CANNOT  DIE. 


ONCE,  when  my  youth  was  in  its  flower, 
I  lived  in  an  enchanted  bower, 

Unvexed  with  fear  or  care, 
With  one  who  made  my  world  so  bright, 
1  thought  no  darkness  and  no  blight 

Could  ever  enter  there 

I  have  no  friend  like  that  to-day, 
The  very  bower  has  passed  away  ; 

It  was  not  what  it  seemed  ; 
I  know  in  all  the  world  of  men 
There  is  not  and  there  ne'er  has  been, 

That  one  of  whom  I  dreamed  ! 

And  one  I  loved  and  called  my  friend, 
And  hoped  to  walk  with  to  the  end, 

And  on  the  better  shore, 
Has  changed  so  cruelly  that  she, 
Out  of  my  years  that  are  to  be, 

Is  lost  for  evermore. 

With  his  dear  eyes  in  death  shut  fast, 
Sleeps  one  who  loved  me  to  the  last, 

Beneath  the  church-yard  stone  ; 
Yet  hath  his  spirit  always  been 
Near  me  to  cheer  the  world  wherein 

I  seem  to  walk  alone. 

There  was  a  little  golden  head 
A  few  brief  seasons  pillowed 

Softly  my  own  beside  ; 
That  pillow  long  has  been  imprest  — 
That  child  yet  sleeps  upon  my  breast 

As  though  she  had  not  died, 

And  seeing  that  I  always  hold 

Mine  earthly  loves,  in  love's  sweet  fold, 

I  thus  have  learned  to  know, 
That  He,  whose  tenderness  divine 
Surpasses  every  thought  of  mine, 

Will  never  let  me  go. 

Yea,   thou,  whose  love,   so  strong,  so 

great, 
Nor  life  nor  death  can  separate 

From  souls  within  thy  care  ; 
I  know  that  though  in  heaven  I  dwell, 
Or  go  to  make  my  bed  in  hell, 

Thou  still  art  with  me  there  ! 


HELPLESS. 

You  never  said  a  word  to  me 
That  was  cruel,  under  the  sun  ; 


358 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE    GARY. 


It  is  n't  the  things  you  do,  darling, 
But  the  things  you  leave  undone. 

If  you  could  but  know  a  wish  or  want 
You  would  grant  it  joyfully  ; 

Ah  !  that  is  the  worst  of  all,  darling, 
That  you  cannot  know  nor  see. 

For  favors  free  alone  are  sweet, 
Not  those  that  we  must  seek  ; 

If  you  loved  as  I  love  you,  darling, 
I  would  not  need  to  speak. 

But  to-day  I  am  helpless  as  a  child 

That  must  be  led  along  ; 
Then    put   your   hand    in    mine,    dar 
ing* 

And  make  me  brave  and  strong. 

There  's  a  heavy  care  upon  my  mind, 

A  trouble  on  my  brain  ; 
Now  gently  stroke  my  hair,  darling, 

And  take  away  the  pain. 

I  feel  a  weight  within  my  breast, 

As  if  all  had  gone  amiss  ; 
Oh,  kiss  me  with  your  lips,  darling, 

And  fill  my  heart  with  bliss. 

Enough  !  no  deeper  joy  than  this 

For  souls  below  is  given  ; 
Now  take  me  in  your  arms,  darling, 

And  lift  me  up  to  heaven  ! 


MY  HELPER. 

WE  stood,  my  soul  and  I, 
In  fearful  jeopardy, 

The  while  the  fire  and  tempest  passed 
us  by. 

For  I  was  pushed  by  fate 
Into  that  fearful  strait, 
Where  there  was  nothing  but  to  stand 
and  wait. 

I  had  no  company  — 
The  world  was  dark  to  me  : 
Whence  any  light  might  come  I  could 
not  see. 

I  lacked  each  common  good, 
Nor  raiment  had  nor  food  ; 
The   earth    seemed   slipping   from  me 
where  I  stood. 


One  who  had  wealth  essayed  ; 
Gold  in  my  hand  he  laid  ; 
He  proffered  all  his  treasures  for  my 
aid. 


Yet  from  his  gilded  roof, 
I  needs  must  stand  aloof  ; 
I   could  not  put   his  kindness   to 
proof. 


the 


One  who  had  wisdom,  said, 
"  By  me  be  taught  and  led, 
And    thou,    thyself,    mayst   win    both 
home  and  bread. 

Too  strong  and  wise  was  he, 
Too  far  away  from  me, 
To  help  me  in  my  great  necessity. 

Came  one,  with  modest  guise, 
With  tender,  downcast  eyes, 
With  voice  as  sweet   as  mothers'  lul 
labies. 

Softly  his  words  did  fall, 

"  My  riches  are  so  small 

I  cannot  give  thee  anything  at  all. 

"  I  cannot  guide  thy  way, 
As  wiser  mortals  may  ; 
But  all  my  true   heart   at   thy  feet    I 
lay." 

No  more  earth  seemed  to  move, 
The  skies  grew  bright  above  ; 
He  gave  me  everything,  who  gave  me 
love! 

I  had  sweet  company, 
Food,  raiment,  luxury  ; 
Had  all  the  world  —  had  heaven  come 
down  to  me  ! 

And  now  such  peace  is  mine, 
Surely  a  light  divine 
Must  make  my  face  with  holiest  joy  to 
shine. 

So  that  my  heart's  delight 
Is  published  in  men's  sight  ; 
And  night  and  day  I  cry,  and  day  and 
night  ; 

O  soul,  no  more  alone, 
Such  bliss  as  thine  is  known 
But  to  the  angels  nearest  love's  white 
throne  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AATD   FRIENDSHIP. 


359 


FAITHFUL. 

FAINTER  and  fainter  may  fall  on  my  ear 
The  voice  that  is  sweeter  than  music 

to  hear  ; 

More  and  more  eagerly  then  will  I  list, 
That   never  a  word  or   an  accent  be 

missed. 

Slower  and   slower   the   footstep  may 

grow, 
Whose  fall   is   the   pleasantest  sound 

that  I  know  ; 
Quicker  and   quicker    my  glad   heart 

shall  learn 
To  catch  its  faint  echo  and  bless  its 

return. 

Whiter  and  whiter  may  turn  with  each 

day 
The  locks  that  so  sadly  are  changing 

to  gray  ; 
Dearer  and  dearer  shall  these  seem  to 

me, 
The  fewer  and  whiter  and  thinner  they 

be. 

Weaker  and  weaker  may  be  the  light 

clasp 
Of  the  hand  that  I  hold  so  secure  in 

my  grasp  ; 
Stronger  and  stronger  my  own  to  the 

last 
Will  cling  to  it,  holding  it  tenderly  fast. 

Darker  and   darker  above    thee   may 

spread 
The  clouds  of  a  fate  that  is  hopeless 

and  dread  ; 
Brighter  and  brighter  the   sun  of  my 

love 
Will  shine,  all  the  shadows  and  mists 

to  remove. 

Envy  and  malice  thy  life  may  assail, 
Favor  and  fortune  and  friendship  may 

fail  ; 
But    perfect    and   sure,    and    undying 

shall  be 
The  trust  of  this  heart  that  is  centred 

in  thee  ! 


THE  LAST  ACT. 

A  WRETCHED  farce  is  our  life  at  best, 
A  weariness  under  the  sun  ; 


I  am  sick  of  the  part  I  have  to  play, 
And  I  would  that  it  were  done. 

I  would  that  all  the  smiles  and  sighs 
Of  its  mimic  scenes  could  end  ; 

That  we  could  see  the  curtain  fall 
On  the  last  poor  act,  my  friend  ! 

Thin,  faded  hair,  a  beard  of  snow, 
A  thoughtful,  furrowed  brow  ; 

And  this  is  all  the  world  can  see 
When  it  looks  upon  you  now. 

And  I,  it  almost  makes  me  smile, 

'T  is  counterfeit  so  true, 
To  see  how  Time  hath  got  me  up 

For  the  part  I  have  to  do. 

'Tis  strange  that  we  can  keep  in  mind, 
Through  all  this  tedious  play, 

The  way  we  needs  must  act  and  look, 
And  the  words  that  we  should  say. 

And  I  marvel  if  the  young  and  gay 

Believe  us  sad  and  old  ; 
If  they  think  our  pulses  slow  and  calm. 

And  cur  feelings  dead  and  cold  ! 

But  I  cannot  hide  myself  from  you. 

Be  the  semblance  e'er  so  good  ; 
For  under  it  all  and  through  it  all 

You  would  know  the  womanhood. 

And  you  cannot  make  me  doubt  your 

truth, 

For  all  your  strange  disguise  ; 
For  the  soul   is    drawn  through  your 

tender  voice, 

J       And    the    heart   through    the  loving 
eyes. 

And  I  see,  where  other  eyes  behold 
Thin,  whitened  locks  fall  down, 

A  god-like  head,  that  proudly  wears 
Its  curls  like  a  royal  crown. 

And  I  see  the  smile  of  the  tender  lip, 
'Neath  its  manly  fringe  of  jet, 

That   won    my   heart,   when    I    had    a 

heart, 
And  that  holds  and  keeps  it  yet. 

Ah  !  how  shall  we  act  this  wretched 

part 

Till  its  weary,  weary  close  ? 
For  our  souls  are  young,  we  are  lovers 

yet, 
For  all  our  shams  and  shows  ! 


360 


THE  POEMS  OF   PHCEBE   GARY. 


Let  us  go  and  lay  our  masks  aside 
In  that  cool  and  green  retreat, 

That    is     softly    curtained    from     the 

world 
By  the  daisies  fair  and  sweet. 

And  far  away  from  this  weary  life, 
In  the  light  of  Love's  white  throne, 

We  shall  see,  at  last,  as  we  are  seen, 
And  know  as  we  are  known  ! 


TRUE  LOVE. 

I  THINK  true  love  is  never  blind, 
But  rather  brings  an  added  light ; 

An  inner  vision  quick  to  find 

The     beauties    hid    from    common 
sight. 

No  soul  can  ever  clearly  see 

Another's  highest,  noblest  part ; 

Save  through  the  sweet  philosophy 
And  loving  wisdom  of  the  heart. 

Your  unanointed  eyes  shall  fall 

On    him    who    fills    my    world    with 

light  ; 
You  do  not  see  my  friend  at  all, 

You  see  what  hides  him  from  your 
sight. 

I  see  the  feet  that  fain  would  climb, 
You,  but  the  steps  that  turn  astray  : 

I  see  the  soul  unharmed,  sublime  ; 
You,  but  the  garment,  and  the  clay. 

You  see  a  mortal,  weak,  misled, 
Dwarfed  ever  by  the  earthly  clod  ; 

I  see  how  manhood,  perfected, 
May  reach  the  stature  of  a  god. 

Blinded  I  stood,  as  now  you  stand, 
Till    on    mine    eyes,    with    touches 
sweet, 

Love,  the  deliverer,  laid  his  hand, 
And  lo  !  I  worship  at  his  feet ! 


COMPLAINT. 

41  THOUGH  we  were  parted,  or  though 
he  had  died," 

She  said,  "  I  could  bear  the  worst, 
If  he  only  had  loved  me  at  the  last, 

As  he  loved  me  at  the  first. 


"  But  woe  is  me  !  "  said  the  hapless 
maid, 

"  That  ever  a  lover  came  ; 
Since  he  who  lit  in  my  heart  the  fire, 

Has  failed  to  tend  the  flame. 

"  Ah  !  why  did  he  pour  in  my  life's 
poor  cup 

A  nectar  so  divine, 
If  he  had  no  power  to  fill  it  up 

With  a  draught  as  pure  and  fine  ? 

"  Why  did  he  give  me  one  holiday, 
Then  send  me  back  to  toil  ? 

Why  did  he  set  a  lamp  in  my  house, 
And  leave  it  lacking  oil  ? 

"Why  did  he  plant  the  rose  in  my 
cheeks 

When  he  knew  it  could  not  thrive  — 
That  the  dew  of  kisses,  only,  keeps 

The  true  blush-rose  alive  ? 

"  If  he  tired  so  soon  of  the  song  I  sung 
In  our  love's  delicious  June, 

Why  did  he  set  the  thoughts  of  my 

heart 
All  to  one  blessed  tune  ? 

"  Oh,  if  he  were  either  true  or  false, 
My  torment  might  have  end  : 

He  hath  been,  for  a  lover,  too  unkind  ; 
Too  loving  for  a  friend  ! 

"And  there  is  not  a  soul  in  all  the 
world 

So  wretched  as  mine  must  be, 
For  I  cannot  live  on  his  love,"  she  said, 

"  Nor  die  of  his  cruelty." 


DOVES'  EYES. 

THERE  are  eyes  that  look  through  us, 
With  the  power  to  undo  us, 
Eyes  of  the  lovingest,  tenderest  blue, 
Clear  as   the   heavens  and  as  truthful 

too  ; 

But  these  are  not  my  love's  eyes, 
For,  behold,  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 

There  are  eyes  half  defiant, 

Half  meek  and  compliant  ; 
Black  eyes,  with  a  wondrous,  witching 

charm 
To  bring  us  good  or  to  work  us  harm  ; 

But  these  are  not  my  love's  eyes, 

For,  behold  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


361 


There  are  eyes  to  our  feeling 

Forever  appealing ; 
Eyes  of  a  helpless,  pleading  brown, 
That  into  our  very  souls  look  down  ; 

But  these  are  not  my  love's  eyes, 

For,  behold,  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 

Oh  eyes,  dearest,  sweetest, 
In  beauty  completest ; 
Whose  perfectness  cannot  be  told  in  a 

word,  — 
Clear  and  deep  as  the  eyes  of  a  soft, 

brooding  bird  ; 

These,  these  are  my  love's  eyes, 
For,  behold,  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 


THE   HUNTER'S    WIFE. 

MY  head  is  sick  and  my  heart  is  faint, 
I  am  wearied  out  with   my  own  com 
plaint. 

Answer  me,  come  to  me,  then  ; 
For,  lo  !   I  have  pleaded  by  everything 
My  brain  could  dream,  or  my  lips  could 

sing. 
I  have  called  you  lover,  and  called  you 

king, 
And  man  of  the  race  of  men  ! 

Come    to    me    glad,    and    I    will    be 

glad  ; 
But  if  you  are  weary,  or  if  you  are 

sad, 

I  will  be  patient  and  meek, 
Nor   word,  nor  smile  will   I    seem  to 

crave  ; 
But  I  '11  sit  and  wait,  like  an   Eastern 

slave, 
Or  wife,    in  the   lodge   of   an    Indian 

brave, 
In  silence,  till  you  speak. 

Come,  for  the  power  of  life  and  death 
Hangs  for  me  on  the  lightest  breath 

Of  the  lips  that  I  believe  ; 
Only  pause  by  the  cooling  lake, 
Till   your  weary  mule    her  thirst  shall 

slake  ; 
'T  were  a  fearful  thing  if  a  heart  should 

break 
And  you  held  its  sweet  reprieve  ! 

Sleep  lightly  under  the  loving  moon  ; 
Rise    with    the    morning,  and   ride  till 

noon  ; 
Ride  till  the  stars  are  above  ! 


And   as    you    distance    the   mountain 

herds, 
And  shame  the  flight  of  the   summer 

birds, 

Say  softly  over  the  tenderest  words 
The  poets  have  sung  of  love. 

You  will  come  —  you  are  coming  —  a 

thousand  miles 
Away,  I  can  see  you  press  through  the 

aisles 


Of  the  forest,  cool  and  gray  ; 
till 
have  met, 


And  my  lips  shall  be  dumb  till  our  lips 


For  never  skill  of  a  mortal  yet, 
To  mortal  words  such  music  set, 
As  beats  in  my  heart  to-day  ! 


LOVERS  AND    SWEETHEARTS. 

FAIR  youth,  too  timid  to  lift  your  eyes 

To  the  maiden  with  downcast  look, 
As  you  mingle  the  gold  and  brown  of 
your  curls 

Together  over  a  book  ; 
A  fluttering  hope  that  she  dare  not  name 

Her  trembling  bosom  heaves  ; 
And  your  heart  is  thrilled,  when   your 
fingers  meet, 

As  you  softly  turn  the  leaves. 

Perchance  you  two  will  walk  alone 

Next  year  at  some  sweet  day's  close, 
And  your  talk  will  fall  to  a  tenderer 
tone, 

As  you  liken  her  cheek  to  a  rose  ; 
And  then  her  face  will  flush  and  glow, 

With  a  hopeful,  happy  red  ; 
Outblushing  all  the  flowers  that  grow 

Anear  in  the  garden-bed. 

If  you  plead  for  hope,  she  may  bashful 

drop 

Her  head  on  your  shoulder,  low  ; 
And  you  will  be  lovers  and  sweethearts 

then 

As  youths  and  maidens  go  : 
Lovers     and     sweethearts,     dreaming 

dreams, 

And  seeing  visions  that  please, 
With  never  a  thought  that  life  is  made 
Of  great  realities  ; 

That  the  cords  of  love  must  be  strong 

as  death 
Which  hold  and  keep  a  heart, 


362 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Not  daisy-chains,    that    snap    in    the 

breeze, 

Or  break  with  their  weight  apart ; 
For   the  pretty   colors  of  youth's  fair 

morn 

Fade  out  from  the  noonday  sky  ; 
And  blushing  loves,  in  the  roses  born, 
Alas  !  with  the  roses  die  ! 

But  the  love,  that  when  youth's  morn 
is  past, 

Still  sweet  and  true  survives, 
Is  the  faith  we  need  to  lean  upon 

In  the  crises  of  our  lives  : 
The  love  that  shines  in  the  eyes  grown 
dim, 

In  the  voice  that  trembles  speaks  ; 
And  sees  the  roses,  that  a  year  ago 

Withered  and  died  in  our  cheeks  ; 

That  sheds  a  halo  round  us  still, 

Of  soft  immortal  light, 
When  we  change  youth's  golden  coro 
nal 

For  a  crown  of  silver  white  : 
A  love  for  sickness  and  for  health, 

For  rapture  and  for  tears  ; 
That  will  live  for  us,  and  bear  with  us 

Through  all  our  mortal  years. 

And  such  there  is  ;    there  are   lovers 

here, 

On  the  brink  of  the  grave  that  stand, 
Who  shall  cross  to  the   hills   beyond, 

and  walk 

Forever  hand  in  hand  ! 
Pray,  youth  and  maid,  that  your  end 

be  theirs, 

Who  are  joined  no  more  to  part ; 
For  death  comes  not  to  the  living  soul, 
Nor  age  to  the  loving  heart ! 


THE  ROSE. 

THE  sun,  who  smiles  wherever  he  goes, 
Till  the  flowers  all  smile  again, 

Fell  in   love  one   day  with    a   bashful 

rose, 
That  had  been  a  bud  till  then. 

So  he  pushed  back  the  folds  of  the  soft 

green  hood 

That  covered  her  modest  grace, 
And  kissed  her  as  only  the  bold  sun 

could, 
Till  the  crimson  burned  in  her  face. 


But  woe  for  the  day  when  his  golden 

hair 

Tangled  her  heart  in  a  net  ; 
And  woe  for  the  night  of  her  dark  de 
spair, 
When  her  cheek  with  tears  was  wet ! 

For  she  loved  him  as  only  a  young  rose 
could  : 

And  he  left  her  crushed  and  weak, 
Striving  in  vain  with  her  faded  hood 

To  cover  her  burning  cheek. 


ARCHIE. 

OH   to  be  back  in  the  cool  summer 

shadow 
Of  that  old   maple-tree   down   in   the 

meadow  ; 
Watching  the  smiles  that  grew  dearer 

and  dearer, 
Listening  to  lips  that  drew  nearer  and 

nearer ; 
Oh  to  be  back  in  the  crimson-topped 

clover, 
Sitting  again  with  my  Archie,  my  lover  ! 

Oh  for  the  time  when  I  felt  his  ca 
resses 

Smoothing  away  from  my  forehead  the 
tresses  ; 

When  up  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek 
went  the  blushes, 

As  he  said  that  my  voice  was  as  sweet 
as  the  thrush's  ; 

As  he  told  me,  my  eyes  were  bewitch- 
ingly  jetty, 

And  I  answered,  't  was  only  my  love 
made  them  pretty! 

Talk    not    of   maiden    reserve    or   of 

duty 
Or  hide  from  my  vision  such  visions  of 

beauty  ; 
Pulses   above    may  beat    calmly   and 

even,  — 
We  have  been  fashioned  for  earth,  and 

not  heaven  : 

Angels  are  perfect,  I  am  but  a  woman  ; 
Saints   may  be  passionless,  Archie    is 

human. 

Say   not    that   heaven    hath    tenderer 

blisses 
To  her  on  whose  brow  drops  the  soft 

rain  of  kisses  ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


363 


Preach  not  the  promise  of  priests  or 
evangels,  — 

Loved-crowned,  who  asks  for  the 
crown  of  the  angels  ? 

Yea,  all  that  the  wall  of  pure  jasper  in 
closes, 

Takes  not  the  sweetness  from  sweet 
bridal  roses  ! 

Tell  me,  that  when  all  this  life  shall  be 
over, 

I  shall  still  love  him,  and  he  be  my 
lover  ; 

That  mid  flowers  more  fragrant  than 
clover  or  heather 

My  Archie  and  I  shall  be  always  to 
gether, 

Loving  eternally,  met  ne'er  to  sever, 

Then  you  may  tell  me  of  heaven  for 
ever. 


A  DAY  DREAM. 

IF  fancy  do  not  all  deceive, 

If  dreams  have  any  truth, 
Thy  love  must  summon  back  to  me 

The  glories  of  my  youth  ; 
For  if  but  hope  unto  'my  thought 

Such  transformation  brings, 
May  not  fruition  have  the  power 

To  change  all  outward  things  ! 

Come,  then,  and  look  into  mine  eyes 
'  Till  faith  hath  left  no  doubt  ; 
So  shalt  thou  set  in  them  a  light 

That  never  can  go  out  ; 
Or  lay  thy  hand  upon  my  hair, 

And  keep  it  black  as  night ; 
The  tresses  that  had  felt  that  touch 

Would  shame  to  turn  to  white. 

To  me  it  were  no  miracle, 

If,  when  I  hear  thee  speak, 
Lilies  around  my  neck  should  bloom 

And  roses  in  my  cheek  ; 
Or  if  the  joy  of  thy  caress, 

The  wonder  of  thy  smiles, 
Smoothed  all  my  forehead  out  again 

As  perfect  as  a  child's. 

My  lip  is  trembling  with  such  bliss 

As  mortal  never  heard  ; 
My  heart,  exulting  to  itself, 

Keeps  singing  like  a  bird  ; 
And  while  about  my  tasks  I  go 

Quietly  all  the  day, 


I  could  laugh  out,  as  children  laugh, 
Upon  the  hills  at  play. 

0  thou,  whom  fancy  brings  to  me 
With  morning's  earliest  beams, 

Who  walkest  with  me  down  the  night, 
The  paradise  of  dreams  ; 

1  charge  thee,  by  the  power  of  love, 
To  answer  to  love's  call  ; 

Wake  me  to  perfect  happiness, 
Or  wake  me  not  at  all ! 


THE  PRIZE. 

HOPE  wafts  my  bark,  and   round  my 
way 

Her  pleasant  sunshine  lies  ; 
For  I  sail  with  a  royal  argosy 

To  win  a  royal  prize. 

A  maiden  sits  in  her  loveliness 
On  the  shore  of  a  distant  stream, 

And  over  the  waters  at  her  feet 
The  lilies  float,  and  dream. 

She  reaches  down,  and  draws  them  in, 
With  a  hand  that  hath  no  stain  ; 

And  that  lily  of  all  the  lilies,  her  hand, 
Is  the  prize  I  go  to  gain. 

Her  hair  in  a  yellow  flood  falls  down 
From  her  forehead  low  and  white  ; 

I  would  bathe  in  its  billowy  gold,  and 

dream, 
In  its  sea  of  soft  delight. 

Her  cheek  is  as  fair  as  a  tender  flower, 
When  its  blushing  leaves  dispart  ; 

Oh,   my  rose  of  the  world,  my  regal 

rose, 
I  must  wear  you  on  my  heart  ! 

I  must  kiss  your  lips,  so  sweetly  closed 
O'er  their  pearly  treasures  fair  ; 

Or  strike  on  their  coral  reef,  and  sink 
In  the  waves  of  my  dark  despair  ! 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 

"  LOVE  thee  ?  "    Thou  canst  not  ask  of 
me 

So  freely  as  I  fain  would  give  ; 
'T'is  woman's  great  necessity 

To  love  so  long  as  she  shall  live  ; 
Therefore,  if  thou  dost  lovely  prove, 
I  cannot  choose  but  give  thee  love  ! 


364 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE    CARY. 


"  Honor  thee  ?  "     By  her  reverence 
The  truest  woman  best  is  known  ; 

She  needs  must  honor  where  she  finds 
A  nature  loftier  than  her  own  ; 

I  shall  not  turn  from  thee  away, 

Unless  I  find  my  idol  clay  ! 

"  Obey  ?  "     Doth  not  the  stronger  will 
The  weaker  govern  and  restrain  ? 

Most  sweet  obedience  woman  yields 
Where     wisdom,    power,     manhood 
reign. 

I  '11  give  thee,  if  thou  canst  control, 

The  meek  submission  of  my  soul  ! 

Henceforward  all  my  life  shall  be 
Moulded  and  fashioned  by  thine  own  ; 

If  wisdom,  power,  and  constancy 
In  all  thy  words  and  deeds  are  shown  ; 

Whether  my  vow  be  yea  or  nay, 

I  '11  "  love,  and  honor,  and  obey." 


IN  ABSENCE. 

WATCH  her  kindly,  stars  ; 
From  the  sweet  protecting  skies 
Follow  her  with  tender  eyes, 
Look  so  lovingly  that  she 
Cannot  choose  but  think  of  me  : 

Watch  her  kindly,  stars  ! 

Soothe  her  sweetly,  night : 
On  her  eyes,  o'erwearied,  press 
The  tired  lids  with  light  caress  ; 
Let  that  shadowy  hand  of  thine 
Ever  in  her  dreams  seem  mine  : 

Soothe  her  sweetly,  night  ! 

Wake  her  gently,  morn  : 
Let  the  notes  of  early  birds 
Seem  like  love's  melodious  words  ; 
Every  pleasant  sound  my  dear, 
When  she  stirs  from  sleep  should  hear 

Wake  her  gently,  morn  ! 

Kiss  her  softly,  winds  : 
Softly,  that  she  may  not  miss 
Any  sweet,  accustomed  bliss  ; 
On  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  face, 
Till  I  come  to  take  your  place, 

Kiss  and  kiss  her,  winds  ! 


ENCHANTMENT. 

HER  cup  of  life  with  joy  is  full, 
And  her  heart  is  thrilling  so 


That  the  beaker  shakes  in  her  trem 
bling  hand. 
Till  its  sweet  drops  overflow. 

All  day  she  walks  as  in  a  trance  ; 

And  the  thought  she  does  not  speak, 
But  tries  to  hide  from  the  world  away, 

Burns  out  in  her  tell-tale  cheek. 

And  often  from  her  dreams  of  night 
She  wakes  to  consciousness, 

As  the  golden  thread  of  her  slumber 

breaks 
With  the  burden  of  its  bliss. 

She  is  almost  troubled  with  the  wealth 
Of  a  joy  so  great  and  good, 

That  she  may  not  keep  it  to  herself, 
Nor  tell  it  if  she  would. 

'T  is  strange  that  this  should  come  to 
one 

Who,  all  her  life  before, 
Content  in  her  quiet  household  ways, 

Has  asked  for  nothing  more. 

And    stranger,  that   he,  in    whom   the 

power, 

The  wonderful  magic  lay, 
That  has  changed  her  world  to  a  para 
dise, 
Was  a  man  but  yesterday  ! 


WOOED   AND   WON. 

THE  maiden    has    listened   to   loving 

words, 
She  has  seen  a  heart  like  a  flower 

unclose  ; 
And   yet   she   would   almost   hide    its 

truth, 

And  shut  the  leaves  of  the  blushing 
rose. 

For  the  spell  of  enchantment  is  broken 

now, 

And  all  the  future  is  seen  so  clear, 
That   she   longs   for  the  verv  longing 

gone, 

For   the   restless   pleasure   of  hope 
and  fear. 

She   stands   so  close  to  her  painting 

now 

That    its    smallest  failings    are   re 
vealed,  — 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


365 


Ah,  that  beautiful  picture,  that  looked 

so  sweet, 

By    the    misty    distance    half    con 
cealed  ! 

"  Alas,"    she    says,  "  can    it    then    be 

true 

That  all  is  vanity,  as  they  preach,— 
That  the  good  is  in  striving  after  the 

good, 

And  the  best  is  the  thing  we  never 
reach  ? 

"  Are  not  the  sweetest  words  we  can 

speak  : 
'It  is  mine,  and  I  hold  my  treasure 

fast  ?  ' 

And  the  saddest  wrung  from  the  hu 
man  heart  : 

'  It  might  have  been,  but  the  time  is 
past  ? ' 

"  I  do  not  know,  and  I  will  not  say, 
But  yet  of  a  truth  it  seems  to  me, 
I    would   give   my   certain   knowledge 

back 

For  my  hope,  with  its  sweet  uncer 
tainty  ! " 


LOVE'S   RECOMPENSE. 

HER  heart  was  light  as  human  heart 

can  be, 
When  blushingly  she  listened  to  the 

praise 
Of  him  who  talked  of  love  in  those 

sweet  days 
When  first  she  kept  a  lover's  company. 

That  was  hope's  spring-lime  ;  now  its 

flowers  are  dead, 
And  she.  grown  tired  of  life  before 

its  close, 
Weaves   melancholy   stories    out   of 

woes, 

Across  whose  dismal  threads  her  heart 
has  bled. 

Yet  even  for  such  we  need  not  quite 

despair 
Since  from  our  wrong  God  can  bring 

forth  his  right  ; 
And  He,  though  all  are  precious  in 

his  sight, 

Doth  give  the  uncared-for  his  peculiar 
care. 


So,  in  the   good  life  that  shall  follow 

this, 
He,  being  love,  may  make  her  love 

to  be 

One  golden  thread,   spun  out  eter 
nally, 

Through  her  white  fingers,  trembling 
with  their  bliss. 


JEALOUSY. 

I  LOVE  my  love  so  well,  I  would 
There  were  no  eyes  but  mine  that  could 
See  my  sweet  piece  of  womanhood, 
And  marvel  of  delight. 

I    dread    that    even   the    sun    should 

rise  ; 

That  bold,  bright  rover  of  the  skies, 
Who  dares  to  touch  her  closed  eyes, 
And  put  her  dreams  to  flight. 

No  maid  could  be  more  kind  to  me, 
No  truer  maiden  lives  than  she, 
But  yet  I  die  of  jealousy, 

A  thousand  deaths  in  one. 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  stop, 

With  her  soft  hand  a  flower  to  crop  ; 

I  envy  even  the  clover-top 

Her  clear  foot  treads  upon. 

How  cruel  in  my  sight  to  bless 
Even  her  bird  with  the  caress 
Of  fingers  that  I  dare  not  press,  — 
Those  lady  fingers,  white  ; 

That  nestle  oft  in  that  dear  place 
Between  her  pillow  and  her  face, 
And,  never  asking  leave  or  grace, 
Caress  her  cheek  at  night ! 

'T  is  torture  more  than  I  can  bear 
To  see  the  wanton  summer  air 
Lift  the  bright  tresses  of  her  hair, 
And  careless  let  them  fall. 

The  wind  that  through  the  roses  slips, 
And  every  sparkling  dew-drop  sips, 
Without  rebuke  may  kiss  her  lips, 
The  sweetest  rose  of  all. 

I  envy,  on  her  neck  of  snow, 
The  white  pearls  hanging  in  a  row, 
The  opals  on  her  heart  that  glow 
Flushed  with  a  tender  red. 


366 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


I  would  not,  in  her  chamber  fair, 
The  curious  stars  should  see  her,  where 
I,  even  in  thought,  may  scarcely  dare 
For  reverence  to  tread. 

O  maiden,  hear  and  answer  me 
In  kindness  or  in  cruelty  ; 
Tell  me  to  live  or  let  me  die, 
I  cry,  and  cry  again  ! 

Give  me  to  touch  one  golden  tress, 

Give  me  thy  white  hand  to  caress, 

Give  me  thy  red,  red  lips  to  press, 

And  ease  my  jealous  pain  ! 


SONG. 

I  SEE  him  part  the  careless  throng, 

I  catch  his  eager  eye  ; 
He  hurries  towards  me  where  I  wait ;- 

Beat  high,  my  heart,  beat  high  ! 

I  feel  the  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

And  all  my  pulses  thrill ; 
He  sees  me,  passes  careless  by ;  — 

Be  still,  my  heart,  be  still ! 

He  takes  another  hand  than  mine, 

It  trembles  for  his  sake  ; 
I  see  his  joy,  I  feel  my  doom  ;  — 
.  Break,  oh  my  heart-strings,  break  ! 


I  CANNOT  TELL. 

ONCE,  being  charmed  by  thy  smile, 
And  listening  to  thy  praises,  such 

As  women,  hearing  all  the  while, 

I  think  could  never  hear  too  much,  — 

I  had  a  pleasing  fantasy 

Of    souls    that   meet,    and    meeting 

blend, 
And    hearing    that  same   dream    from 

thee, 
I  said  I  loved  thee,  O  my  friend  ! 

That  was  the  flood-tide  of  my  youth, 
And   now  its  calm  waves  backward 
flow ; 

I  cannot  tell  if  it  were  truth, 
If  what  I  feel  be  love,  or  no. 

My  days  and  nights  pass  pleasantly, 
Serenely  on  my  seasons  glide, 


And   though    I    think  and   dream    of 

thee, 
I  dream  of  many  things  beside. 

Most  eagerly  thy  praise  is  sought, 
'T  is  sweet  to  meet,  and  sad  to  part; 

But  all  my  best  and  deepest  thought 
Is  hidden  from  thee  in  my  heart. 

And  still  the  while  a  charm  or  spell 
Half  holds,  and  will  not  let  me  go  ; 

'T  is  strange,  and  yet  I  cannot  tell 
If  what  I  feel  be  love,  or  no  ! 


DEAD  LOVE. 

WE  are  face  to  face,  and  between  us 

here 
Is  the  love  we  thought  could  never 

die; 
Why  has  it  only  lived  a  year  ? 

Who  has  murdered  it  —  you  or  I  ? 

No  matter  who  —  the  deed  was  done 
By  one  or  both,  and  there  it  lies  ; 

The  smile  from  the  lip  forever  gone, 
And  darkness  over  the  beautiful  eyes. 

Our   love    is    dead,    and    our   hope    is 

wrecked  ; 
So  what  does   it  profit  to  talk  and 

rave, 

Whether  it  perished  by  my  neglect, 
Or   whether    your  'cruelty   dug    its 
grave  ! 

Why   should    you    say   that    I    am    to 

blame, 
Or  why  should  I  charge  the  sin  on 

you  ? 

Our  work  is  before  us  all  the  same, 
And  the  guilt  of  it  lies   between  us 
two. 

We  have  praised  our  love  for  its  beauty 

and  grace  ; 

Now  we  stand  here,  and  hardly  dare 
To  turn  the  face-cloth  back  from  the 

face, 

And   see   the   thing  that  is  hidden 
there. 

Yet  look  !  ah,  that  heart  has  beat  its 

last, 

And  the  beautiful  life  of  our  life  is 
o'er, 


POEMS   OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


367 


And  when  we  have  buried  and  left  the 

past, 
We  two,  together,  can  walk  no  more. 

You  might  stretch  yourself  on  the  dead, 

and  weep, 
And  pray  as  the  Prophet  prayed,  in 

pain  ; 
But  not  like  him  could  you  break  the 

sleep, 
And  bring  the  soul  to  the  clay  again. 

Its  head  in  my  bosom  I  can  lay, 
And  shower  my  woe  there,  kiss  on 
kiss, 

But  there  never  was  resurrection-day 
In  the  world  for  a  love  so  dead  as  this 

And,  since  we  cannot  lessen  the  sin 

By  mourning  over  the  deed  we  did, 
Let  us  draw  the  winding-sheet  up  to 

the  chin, 

Aye,  up  till  the  death-blind  eves  are 
hid  ! 


MY  FRIEND. 

O  MY  friend,  O  my  dearly  beloved  ! 

Do  you  feel,  do  you  know, 
How  the  times  and  the    seasons   are 

going  ; 

Are  they  weary  and  slow  ? 
Does    it    seem    to    you   long,    in   the 

heavens, 

My  true,  tender  mate, 
Since  here  we  were  living  together, 

Where  dying  I  wait  ? 
'T  is  three  years,  as  we  count  by  the 

spring-times, 

By  the  birth  of  the  flowers, 
What  are  years,  aye  !  eternities  even, 

To  love  such  as  ours  ? 
Side   by   side   are  we  still,    though   a 

shadow 

Between  us  doth  fall  ; 
We  are  parted,  and  yet  are  not  parted, 

Not  wholly,  a'nd  all. 
For  still  you  are  round  and  about  me, 

Almost  in  my  reach, 
Though  I  miss  the  old  pleasant  com 
munion 

Of  smile  and  of  speech. 
And  I  long  to  hear  what  you  are  seeing, 

And  what  you  have  done, 
Since  the  earth  faded  out  from  your 

vision, 
And  the  heavens. begun  : 


Since  you  dropped  off  the   darkening 

fillet 

Of  clay  from  your  sight, 
And  opened  your  eyes  upon  glory 

Ineffably  bright  ! 
Though  little  my, life  has  accomplished, 

My  poor  hands  have  wrought ; 
I  have   lived  what   has  seemed  to  be 

ages 

In  feeling  and  thought, 
Since  the  time  when  our  path  grew  so 

narrow, 

So  near  the  unknown, 
That    I    turned   back   from   following 

after, 

And  you  went  on  alone. 
For   we   speak   of  you   cheerfully,  al 
ways, 

As  journeying  on  ; 
Not  as  one  who  is  dead  do  we  name 

you  ; 

We  say,  you  are  gone. 
For  how  could  we  speak  of  you  sadly, 
We,  who  watched  while  the  grace 
Of  eternity's  wonderful  beauty 
Grew  over  your  face  ! 

Do  we  call  the  star  lost  that  is  hidden 

In  the  great  light  of  morn  ? 
Or   fashion    a   shroud   for   the    voun<r 
child 

In  the  day  it  is  born  ? 
Yet  behold  this  were  wise  to  their  folly, 

Who  mourn,  sore  distressed, 
When  a  soul,   that  is   summoned,  be 
lieving, 

Enters  into  its  rest  ! 
And  for  you,  never  any  more  sweetly 

Went  to  rest,  true  and  deep, 
Since  the  first  of  our  Lord's  blessed 
martyrs, 

Having  prayed,  fell  asleep. 

What  to  you  was  the  change,  the  tran 
sition, 

When  looking  before, 
You  felt  that  the  places  which  knew  you 

Should  know  you  no  more  ? 
Did  the  soul  rise  exultant,  ecstatic  ? 

Did  it  cry,  all  is  well  ? 
What  it  was  to  the  left  and  the  loving 

We  only  can  tell. 

'T  was  as  if  one  took   from  us  sweet 
roses 

And  we  caught  their  last  breath  ; 
'T  was    like    anything   beautiful    pass 
ing,  — 

It  was  not  like  death  ! 


368 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Like   the   flight   of  a  bird,  when  still 

rising, 

And  singing  aloud, 
He    goes   towards   the    summer-time, 

over 

The  top  of  the  cloud. 
Now  seen  and  now  lost  in  the  distance, 

Borne  up  and  along, 
From    the   sight  of   the    eyes  that  are 

watching 

On  a  trail  of  sweet  song. 
As    sometimes,    in    the   midst   of    the 

blackness, 

A  great  shining  spark 
Flames  up  from  the  wick  of  a  candle, 

Blown  out  in  the  dark  ; 
So  while  we  were  watching  and  wait 
ing* 

'Twixt  hoping  and  doubt, 
The  light  of  the  soul  flashed  upon  us, 

When  we  thought  it  gone  out. 
And  we  scarce  could  believe  it  forever 

Withdrawn  from  our  sight, 
When  the  cold  lifeless  ashes  before  us 

Fell  silent  and  white  ! 
Ah  !  the  strength  of  your  love  was  so 
wondrous, 

So  great  was  its  sway, 
It  forced  back  the  spirit  half-parted 

Away  from  the  clay  ; 
In  its  dread  of  the  great  separation, 

For  not  then  did  we  know, 
Love  can  never  be  left,  O  beloved, 

And  never  can  go  ! 

As    when   from   some   beautiful   case 
ment 

Illumined  at  night, 

While  we  steadfastly  gaze  on  its  bright 
ness, 

A  hand  takes  the  light  ; 
And   our   eyes   still    transfixed  by  the 

splendor 

Look  earnestly  on, 
At  the  place  where  we  lately  beheld 

it, 

Even  when  it  has  gone  : 
So  we  looked  in  your  soul's  darkening 

windows, 

Those  luminous  eyes, 
Till  the  light  taken  from  them  fell  on 

us 

From  out  of  the  skies  ! 
Though   you  wore    something   earthly 

about  you 

That  once  we  called  you, 
A  robe  all  transparent,  and  brightened 
By  the  soul  shining  through  : 


Yet  when  you  had  dropped  it  in  going, 

'T  was  but  yours  for  a  day, 
Safe  back  in  the  bosom  of  nature 

We  laid  it  away. 
Strewing  over  it  odorous  blossoms 

Their  perfume  to  shed, 
But   you   never  were   buried   beneath 
them, 

And  never  were  dead  ! 
What  we-  brought  there  and  left  for  the 
darkness 

Forever  to  hide, 

Was    but   precious   because   you  had 
worn  it, 

And  put  it  aside. 

As  a  garment  might  be,  you  had  fash 
ioned 

In  exquisite  taste  ; 

A  book   which  your  touch    had   made 
sacred, 

A  flower  you  had  graced. 
For  all  that  was  yours  we  hold  precious, 

We  keep  for  your  sake 
Every  relic  our  saint  on  her  journey 

Has  not  needed  to  take. 

Who    that     knew    what    your     spirit, 

though  fettered, 
Aspired  to,  adored, 
When  as  far  as  the  body  would  loose  it 

It  mounted  and  soared  ; 
What  soul  in  the  world  that  had  loved 

you, 

Or  known  you  aright, 
Would  look  for  you  down  in  the  dark 
ness, 

Not  up  in  the  light  ? 
Why,  the  seed  in  the  ground  that  we 

planted, 

And  left  there  to  die, 
Being    quickened,    breaks   out   of    its 

prison, 

And  grows  towards  the  sky. 
The  small  fire  that  but  slowly  was  kin 
dled, 

And  feebly  begun. 
Gaining  strength    as  it   burns,  flashes 

upward, 

And  mounts  to  the  sun. 
And  could  such  a  soul,  free  for  ascend 
ing. 

Could  that  luminous  spark, 
Blown  to  flame  by  the  breath  of  Jeho 
vah, 

Go  out  in  the  dark  ? 
Doth  the  bird   stay  behind  when   the 

window 
Wide  open  is  set  ? 


POEMS   OF  LOVE   AND   FRIEA?DSHIP. 


369 


Or,  freed  from  the  snare  of  the  fowler, 

Hasten  back  to  his  net  ? 
And  you  pined  in  the  flesh,  being  bur 
dened 

By  its  great  weight  of  ills, 
As  a  slave,  who  has  tasted  wild  free 
dom, 

Still  pines  for  the  hills. 
And  therefore  it  is  that  I  seek  you 

In  full,  open  day, 

Where  the  universe  stretches  the  far 
thest 

From  darkness  away. 
And  think  of  you  always  as  rising 

And  spurning  the  gloom  ; 
All  the  width  of  infinity  keeping 

'Twixt  yourself  and  the  tomb  ! 

Sometimes  in  white  raiment  I  see  you, 

Treading  higher  and  higher, 
On  the  great'sea  of  glass,  ever  shining, 

And  mingled  with  fire. 
With  the  crown  and  the  harp  of  the 
victor, 

Exultant  you  stand  ; 
And  the  melody  drops,  as  if  jewels 

Dropped  off  from  your  hand. 
You  walk  in  that  beautiful  city, 

Adorned  as  a  bride, 
Whose  twelve  gates  of  pearl  are  for 
ever 

Opened  freely  and  wide. 
Whose  walls  upon  jasper  foundations 

Shall  firmly  endure  ; 
Set  with  topaz,  and  beryl,  and  sapphire, 

And  amethyst  pure. 
You  are  where  there  is  not  any  dying, 

Any  pain,  any  cries  ; 
And  God's  hand  has  wiped  softly  for 
ever, 

The  tears  from  your  eyes : 
For  if  spirits  because  of  much  loving 

Come  nearest  the  throne, 
You  must  be  with  the  saints  and  the 
children 

Our  Lord  calls  his  own  ! 

Sometimes  you  are  led  in  green  past 
ures, 

The  sweetest  and  best  ; 
Sometimes  as  a  lamb  in  the  bosom 

Of  Jesus  you  rest. 
Where  you  linger  the  spiciest  odors 

Of  paradise  blow, 
And  under  your  feet  drifts  of  blossoms 

Lie  soft  as  the  snow. 
If  you  follow  the  life-giving  river, 

Or  rest  on  its  bank, 
24 


You  are  set  round  by  troops  of  white 

lilies, 

In  rank  after  rank. 

And  the  loveliest  things,  and  the  fair 
est, 

That  near  you  are  seen 
Seem    as    beautiful    handmaids,    who 

wait  on 

The  step  of  a  queen. 
For  always,  wherever  I  see  you, 

Below  or  above, 
I  think  all  the  good  which  surrounds 

you 

Is  born  of  your  love. 
And  the  best  place  is  that  where  I  find 

you, 

The  best  thing  what  you  do  ; 
For  you  seem  to   have  fashioned   the 

heaven 
That  was  fashioned  for  you  ! 

But  as  from  his  essence  and  nature 

Our  God,  ever  blest, 
Cannot  do  anything  for  his  children 

But  that  which  is  best ; 
And    till    He   hath   gathered   them    to 
Him, 

In  the  heavens  above, 
Cannot  joy  over  them  as  one  singing, 

Nor  rest  in  his  love  ; 
So    you,    who    have    drawn    from    his 
goodness 

Your  portion  of  good, 
Must   help  where   your    hand   can  be 
helpful, 

Cannot  rest  if  you  would  ; 
For  you  could  not  be  happy  in  heaven, 

By  glory  shut  in, 

While  any  soul  whom  you  might  com 
fort 

Should  suffer  and  sin. 
So  unto  the  heirs  of  salvation 

Have  you  freely  appeared  ; 
And  the  earth  by  your  sweet  ministra 
tion 

Is  brightened  and  cheered. 

I  am  sure  you  are  near  to  the  dying  ! 

For  often  we  mark 
A  smile  on  their  faces, whose  brightness 

Lights  the  soul  through  the  dark  ; 
Sure,  that   you    have  foreman    in    his 
direst 

Necessity  cared  ; 
Preparing  him  then  for  whatever 

The  Lord  hath  prepared. 
So,  whenever  you  tenderly  loosen 

A  hand  from  our  grasp, 


370 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


We  feel,  you  can  hold  it  and  keep  it 

More  safe  in  your  clasp  ; 
And  that  he,  whose  dear  smile   for  a 

season 

Our  love  must  resign, 
Gains  the  infinite  comfort  and  sweet 
ness 
Of  love  such  as  thine. 

Yea,  lost  mortal,  immortal  forever  ! 

And  saved  evermore  ! 
You  revisit  the  world  and  the  people, 

That  saw  you  of  yore. 
To  the  sorrowful  house,  to  the  death- 
room, 

The  prison  and  tomb, 
You  come,  as  on  wings  of  the  morning, 

To  scatter  the  gloom. 
Wherever  in  desolate  places 

Earth's  misery  abides  ; 
Wherever  in  dark  habitations 

Her  cruelty  hides  ; 
If  there  the  good  seek  for  the  wretched, 

And  lessen  their  woes, 
Surely  they  are  led  on  by  the  angels, 

And  you  are  of  those. 

In  the  holds  of  oppression,  where  cap 
tives 

Sit  silent  and  weep, 
Your  face  as  the  face  of  a  seraph 

Has  shined  in  their  sleep  : 
And  your  white  hand  away  from  the 

dungeon 

His  free  step  has  led, 
When  the  slave  slipped  his  feet  from 

the  fetters, 

And  the  man  rose  instead  ; 
Free,  at  least   in  his  dreams  and  his 

visions, 

That  one  to  behold, 
Who    walked   through    the    billows  of 

fire 

With  the  faithful  of  old. 
And  what  are  the  walls  of  the  prison, 

The  rack  and  the  rod, 
To  him,  who  in  thought  and  in  spirit, 

Bows  only  to  God  ? 
If  his  doors  are    swung   back   by  the 

angels 

That  visit  his  sleep  — 
If  his  singing  ascend  at  the  midnight, 

Triumphant  and  deep  ; 
He  is  freer  than  they  who  have  bound 

him, 

For  his  spirit  may  rise 
And  as  far  as  infinity  reaches 
May  travel  the  skies  ! 


And  who  knows  but  the  wide  world  of 
slumber 

Is  real  as  it  seems  ? 
God  giveth  them  sleep,  his  beloved, 

And  in  sleep  giveth  dreams  ! 
And  happy  are  we  if  such  visions 

Our  souls  can  receive  ; 
If  we  sleep  at  the  gateway  of  heaven, 

And  wake  and  believe. 
If  angels  for  us  on  that  ladder 

Ascend  and  descend, 
Whose  top  reaches  into  the  heavens, 

With  God  at  the  end  ! 
If  our  souls  can  raise  up  for  a  Bethel 

E'en  the  great  stone  that  lies 
At  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre,  hiding 

Our  dead  from  our  eyes  ! 
But  alas  !•  if  our  sight  be  withholden, 

If  faithless,  bereft, 

We  stoop  down,  looking  in  at  the  grave- 
clothes 

The  Risen  hath  left ; 
And  see  not  the  face  of  the  angel 

All  dazzling  and  white, 
Who  points    us  away  from    the  dark 
ness, 

And  up  to  the  light ! 
And   alas  !  when  our  Helper  is  pass 
ing* 

If  then  we  delay, 
To  cast  off  the  hindering  garments 

And  follow  his  way  ! 

Yet  how  blindly  humanity  gropeth, 

While  clad  in  this  veil  ; 
When  we  seek  for  the  truths  that  are 

nearest, 

How  often  we  fail. 
How  little  we  learn  of  each  other, 

How  little  we  teach  ; 
How  poorly  the  wisest  interpret 

The  look  and  the  speech  ! 
Only  that  which  in  nearest  communion 

'We  give  and  receive. 
That  which  spirit  to  spirit  imparteth, 

Can  we  know  and  believe. 
Thus    I    know  that   you  live,  live  for 
ever, 

Free  from  death,  free  from  harms  ; 
For   in    dreams    of    the    night,  and  at 

noonday 

Have  you  been  in  my  arms  ! 
And  I  know  that,  when  I  shall  be  like 

you, 

We  shall  meet  face  to  face  ; 
That  all  souls,  who  are  joined  by  affec 
tion, 
Are  joined  by  God's  grace  ; 


POEMS   OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


371 


And  that,  O  my  dearly  beloved, 

But  the  Father  above, 
Who  made  us  and  joined  us  can  part 
us  ; 

And  He  cannot  for  love. 


DREAMS    AND    REALITIES. 

O  ROSAMOND,  thou  fair  and  good, 
And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood, 

Thou  royal  rose  of  June, 
Why  didst  thou  droop  before  thy  time  ? 
Why  wither  in  thy  first  sweet  prime  ? 

Why  didst  thou  die  so  soon  ? 

For  looking  backward  through  my  tears 
On  thee,  and  on  my  wasted  years, 

I  cannot  choose  but  say, 
If  thou  hadst  lived  to  be  my  guide, 
Or  thou  hadst  lived  and  I  had  died, 

'T  were  better  far  to-day. 

O  child  of  light,  O  golden  head  — 
Bright  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 

Upon  life's  lonely  way  — 
Why  didst  thou  vanish  from  our  sight  ? 
Could  they  not  spare  my  little  light 

From  heaven's  unclouded  day  ? 

O  friend  so  true,  O  friend  so  good  — 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood, 

That  gave  youth  all  its  charms  — 
What  had  I  done,  or  what  hadst  thou, 
That  through  this  lonesome  world  till 
now 

We  walk  with  empty  arms  ? 


And  yet,  had  this  poor  soul  been  fed 
With  all  it  loved  and  coveted  — 

Had  life  been  always  fair  — 
Would   these  dear  dreams  that  ne'er 

depart, 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 

Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 
The  friends  I  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 
Could  I   have  learned  that  clear,  calm 

faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bounds  of  death, 

And  almost  longs  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes,  I  think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be  ; 

That  what  we  plan  we  build  ; 
That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed, 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost, 

In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled  ; 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
Have  not  beenjDorn  and  died  in  vain, 

Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb  ; 
But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
They  live,  embodied  evermore, 

And  wait  for  us  to  come. 

And  when  on  that  last  day  we  rise, 
Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skies, 

Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  "  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and 

death  ; 
Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith, 

Shall  be  thy  faith's  reward." 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


NEARER   HOME. 

ONE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before  ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 

Where  the  many  mansions  be  ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea  ; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

.  Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown  ! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm  : 

Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink  ; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think  ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith  ! 


MANY   MANSIONS. 

HER  silver  lamp  half-filled  with  oil, 
Night  came,  to  still  the  day's  turmoil, 
And  bring  a  respite  from  its  toil. 


Gliding  about  with  noiseless  tread, 
Her  white   sheets  on  the  ground  she 

spread, 
That  wearied  men  might  go  to  bed. 

No  watch  was  there  for  me  to  keep, 
Yet  could  I  neither  rest  nor  sleep, 
A  recent  loss  had  struck  so  deep. 

I  felt  as  if  Omnipotence 

Had  given  us  no  full  recompense 

For  all  the  ills  of  time  and  sense. 

So  I  went,  wandering  silently, 
Where  a  great  river  sought  the  sea  ; 
And  fashioned  out  the  life  to  be. 

It  was  not  drawn  from  book  or  creed, 
And  yet,  in  very  truth  and  deed, 
It  answered  to  my  greatest  need. 

And  satisfied  myself,  I  thought, 

A  heaven  so  good  and  perfect  ought 

To  give  to  each  what  all  have  sought. 

Near  where  I  slowly  chanced  to  stray, 
A    youth,    and    old    man,    worn    and 

gray, 
Down  through   the  silence  took  their 

way  ; 

And    the    night     brought    within    my 

reach, 

As  each  made  answer  unto  each, 
Some  portion  of  .their  earnest  speech. 

The  patriarch  said  :  "  Of  all  we  know, 
Or  all  that  we  can  dream  below, 
Of  that  far  land  to  which  we  go, 

"  This  one  assurance  hath  expressed, 
To  me,  its  blessedness  the  best  — 
'  He  giveth  his  beloved  rest.'  " 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


373 


And  the  youth  answered :  "  If  it  be 

A  place  of  inactivity, 

It  cannot  be  a  heaven  to  me. 

u  Surely  its  joy  must  be  to  lack 
These  hindrances  that  keep  us  back 
From  rising  on  a  shining  track  ; 

u  Where  each  shall  find  his  own  true 

height, 

Though  in  our  place,  and  in  our  light, 
We  differ  as  the  stars  of  night." 

I  listened,  till  they  ceased  to  speak  ; 
And    my    heart    answered,    faint    and 

weak, 
Their  heaven  is  not  the  heaven  I  seek  ! 

Yet  their  discourse  awoke  again 
Some  hidden  memories  that  had  lain 
Long  undisturbed  within  my  brain. 

For  oft,  when  bowed  earth's  care  be 
neath, 

I  had  asked  others  of  their  faith 
In  the  life  following  after  death  ; 

And  what  that  better  world  could  be, 
Where,  from  mortality  set  free, 
We  put  on  immortality. 

And  each  in  his  reply  had  shown 
That    he   had    shaped   and   made   his 

own 
By   the    best    things    which    he    had 

known  : 

Or  fashioned  it  to  heal  the  woe 

Of  some  great  sorrow,  which  below 

It  was  his  hapless  lot  to  know. 

A  mother  once  had  said  to  me, 
Over  her  dead  :  "  My  heaven  will  be 
An  undivided  family." 

One  sick  with  mortal  doubts  and  fears, 
With  looking  blindly  through  her  tears, 
The  way  that  she  had  looked  for  years, 

Told  me  :  "  That  world  could  have  no 

pain, 

Since  there  we  should  not  wait  in  vain 
For  feet  that  will  not  come  again." 

A  lover  dreamed  that  heaven  would 

be 

Life's  hour  of  perfect  ecstasy, 
Drawn  out  into  eternity  ! 


Men  bending  to  their  hopeless  doom, 
Toiling  as  in  a  living  tomb, 
Down  shafts  of  everlasting  gloom, 

Out  of  the  dark  had  answered  me  : 
"•  Where  there  is  light  for  us  to  see 
Each  other's  faces,  heaven  must  be." 

An  aged  man,  who  bowed  his  head 
With  reverence  o'er  the  page,  and  read 
The  words  that  ancient  prophets  said, 

Talked  of  a  glory  never  dim. 
Of  the  veiled  face  of  cherubim, 
And  harp,  and  everlasting  hymn  ;  — 

Saw  golden  streets  and  glittering  tow 
ers  — 

Saw  peaceful  valleys,  white  with  flow 
ers, 

Kept  never-ending  Sabbath  hours. 

One,  who  the  cruel  sea  had  crossed, 
And     seen,     through     billows     madly 

tossed, 
Great  shipwrecks,  where   brave  souls 

were  lost. 

Thus  of  the  final  voyage  spake  : 

"  Coming  to  heaven  must  be  to  make 

Safe  port,  and  no  more  journeys  take." 

And  now  their  words  of  various  kind 
Come  back  to  my  bewildered  mind, 
And    my    faith    staggered,    faint    and 
blind, 

One  moment ;  then  this  truth  seemed 

plain, 

These  have  not  trusted  God  in  vain  ; 
To  ask  of  Him  must  be  to  gain. 

Every  imaginable  good, 

We,  erring,  sinful,  mortal,  would 

Give  me  beloved,  if  we  could  ; 

And  shall  not  He,  whose  care  en 
folds 

Our  life,  and  all  our  way  controls, 
Yet  satisfy  our  longing  souls  ? 

Since  mortal  step  hath  never  been, 
And  mortal  eye  hath  never  seen, 
Past  death's  impenetrable  screen. 

Who  shall  dare  limit  Him  above, 

Or  tell  the  ways  in  which  He  '11  prove 

Unto  his  children  all  his  love  ? 


374 


THE  POEMS   OF  PH(EBE   GARY. 


Then  joy  through  all  my  being  spread, 
And,  comforted  myself,  I  said  : 

0  weary  world,  be  comforted  ! 

Souls,  in   your   quest   of  bliss   grown 

weak  — 
Souls,  whose  great  woe  no  words  can 

speak  — 
Not  always  shall  ye  vainly  seek  ! 

Men  whose  whole  lives  have  been  a 

night, 

Shall  come  from  darkness  to  the  light ; 
Wanderers  shall  hail  the  land  in  sight. 

Old  saints,  and  martyrs  of  the  Lamb, 
Shall  rise  to  sing  their  triumph  psalm, 
And  wear  the  crown,  and  bear  the  palm. 

And   the   pale    mourner,    with    bowed 

head, 

Who,  for  the  living  lost,  or  dead, 
Here   weeps,    shall    there    be    gently 

led, 

To  feel,  in  that  celestial  place, 

The  tears  wiped  softly  from  her  face, 

And  know  love's  comforting  embrace. 

So  shall  we  all,  who  groan  in  this, 
Find,  in  that  new  life's  perfectness, 
Our  own  peculiar  heaven  of  bliss  — 

More  glorious  than  our  faith  believed, 
Brighter   than   dreams   our   hope    has 

weaved, 
Better  than  all  our  hearts  conceived. 

Therefore  will  I  wait  patiently, 
Trusting,   where    all   God's    mansions 

be 
There  hath  been  one  prepared  for  me  ; 

And  go  down  calmly  to  death's  tide, 
Knowing,  when  on  the  other  side 

1  wake,  I  shall  be  satisfied. 


THE   SPIRITUAL   BODY. 

I  HAVE  a  heavenly  home, 
To  which  my  soul  may  come, 

And  where  forever  safe  it  may  abide  ; 
Firmly  and  sure  it  stands, 
That  house  not  made  with  hands, 

And    garnished   as   a  chamber  for  a 
bride ! 


'T  is  such  as  angels  use, 
Such  as  good  men  would  choose  ; 
It  hath  all  fair  and  pleasant  things  in 

sight  : 

Its  walls  as  white  and  fine 
As  polished  ivory  shine, 
And  through  its  windows  comes  celes 
tial  light. 

'T  is  builded  fair  and  good, 

In  the  similitude 
Of  the  most  royal  palace  of  a  king  ; 

And  sorrow  may  not  come 

Into  that  heavenly  home, 
Nor  pain,  nor  death,  nor  any  evil  thing. 

Near  it  that  stream  doth  pass 
Whose  waters,  clear  as  glass, 

Make  glad  the  city  of  our  God  with 

song  ; 

Whose  banks  are  fair  as  those 
Whereon  stray  milk-white  does, 

Feeding  among  the  lilies  all  day  long. 

And  friends  who  once  were  here 

Abide  in  dwellings  near  ; 
They  went  up   thither  on  a  heavenly 
road  ; 

While  I,  though  warned  to  go, 

Yet  linger  here  below, 
Clinging  to  a  most  miserable  abode. 

The  evil  blasts  drive  in 
Through  chinks,  which  time  and  sin 
Have  battered  in  my  wretched  house 

of  clay  ; 

Yet  in  so  vile  a  place, 
Poor,  unadorned  with  grace 
I  choose  to  live,  or  rather  choose  to 
stay. 

And  here  I  make  my  moan 
About  the  days  now  gone, 
About  the  souls  passed  on  to  their  re 
ward  ; 
The  souls  that  now  have  come 

Into  a  better  home, 

And  sit  in  heavenly  places  with  their 
Lord. 

'T  is  strange  that  I  should  cling 
To  this  despised  thing, 
To  this  poor  dwelling  crumbling  round 

my  head  : 

Making  myself  content 
In  a  low  tenement 

After  my  joys   and   friends   alike  are 
fled  ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


375 


Yet  I  shall  not,  I  know, 

Be  ready  hence  to  go, 
And  dwell  in  my  good  palace,  fair  and 
whole, 

Till  unrelenting  Death 

Blows  with  his  icy  breath 
Upon  my  naked  and  unsheltered  soul  ! 


A  GOOD  DAY. 

EARTH    seems    as    peaceful    and    as 
bright 

As  if  the  year  that  might  not  stay, 
Had  made  a' sweet  pause  in  her  flight, 

To  keep  another  Sabbath  day. 

And  I,  as  past  the  moments  roll, 
Forgetting  human  fear  and  doubt. 

Hold  better  Sabbath,  in  my  soul, 

Than  that  which  Nature  holds  with 
out. 

Help  me,  O  Lord,  if  I  shall  see 
Times  when  I  walk  from  hope  apart, 

Till  all  my  days  but  seem  to  be 

The  troubled  week-days  of  the  heart. 

Help  me  to  find,  in  seasons  past, 

The  hours  that  have  been  good  or 
fair, 

And  bid  remembrance  hold  them  fast, 
To  keep  me  wholly  from  despair. 

Help  me  to  look  behind,  before, 
To  make  my  past  and  future  form 

A  bow  of  promise,  meeting  o'er 
The  darkness  of  my  day  of  storm. 


HYMN. 

How  dare  I  in  thy  courts  appear, 
Or  raise  to  thee  my  voice  ! 

I  only  serve  thee,  Lord,  with  fear, 
With  trembling  I  rejoice. 

I  have  not  all  forgot  thy  word. 

Nor  wholly  gone  astray  ; 
I  follow  thee,  but  oh,  my  Lord, 

So  faint,  so  far  away  ! 

That  thou  wilt  pardon  and  receive 
Of  sinners  even  the  chief, 

Lord,  I  believe,  —  Lord,  I  believe  ; 
Help  thou  mine  unbelief  ! 


DRAWING  WATER. 

HE  had  drunk  from  founts    of  pleas 
ure, 

And  his  thirst  returned  again  ; 
He  had  hewn  out  broken  cisterns, 

And  behold  !  his  work  was  vain. 

And  he  said,  "  Life  is  a  desert, 
Hot,  and  measureless,  and  dry  ; 

And  God  will  not  give  me  water, 
Though  I  strive,  and  faint,  and  die." 

Then  he  heard  a  voice  make  answer, 
"  Rise  and  roll  the  stone  away  ; 

Sweet  and  precious  springs  lie  hidden 
In  thy  pathway  every  day." 

And  he  said,  his  heart  was  sinful, 
Very  sinful  was  his  speech  : 

"  All  the  cooling  wells  I  thirst  for 
Are  too  deep  for  me  to  reach." 

But  the  voice  cried,  "  Hope  and  labor  ; 

Doubt  and  idleness  is  death  ; 
Shape  a  clear  and  goodly  vessel, 

With  the  patient  hands  of  faith." 

So  he  wrought  and  shaped  the  vessel, 
Looked,  and  lo  !  a  well  was  there  ; 

And  he  drew  up  living  water, 
With  a  golden  chain  of  prayer. 


TOO  LATE. 

BLESSINGS,  alas  !  unmerited, 
Freely  as  evening  dews  are  shed 
Each  day  on  my  unworthy  head. 

So  that  my  very  sins  but  prove 
The  sinlessness  of  Him  above 
And  his  unutterable  love. 

And  yet,  as  if  no  ear  took  heed, 
Not  what  I  ask,  but  what  I  need, 
Comes  down  in  answer,  when  I  plead. 

So  that  my  heart  with  anguish  cries, 
My  soul  almost  within  me  dies, 
'T  wixt  what  God  gives,  and  what  de 
nies. 

For  howsoe'er  with  good  it  teems, 
The  life  accomplished  never  seems 
The  blest  fulfillment  of  its  dreams. 


376 

Therefore,  when  nearest  happiness, 
I  only  say,  The  thing  I  miss  — 
That  would  have  perfected  my  bliss  ! 

When  harvests  great  are  mine  to  reap, 
Too  late,  too  late  !   I  sit  and  weep, 
My  best  beloved  lies  asleep  ! 

Sometimes  my  griefs  are  hard  to  bear, 
Sometimes  my  comforts  I  would  share, 
And  the  one  dearest  is  not  there. 

That  which  is  mine  to-day,  I  know, 
Had  made  a  paradise  below, 
Only  a  little  year  ago. 

The  sunshine  we  then  did  crave, 
As  having  almost  power  to  save, 
Keeps  now  the  greenness  of  a  grave. 

To  have  our  dear  one  safe  from  gloom. 
We  planned  a  fair  and  pleasant  room, 
And  lo  !  Fate  builded  up  a  tomb. 

An  empty  heart,  with  cries  unstilled, 
An  empty  house,  with  love  unfilled, 
These  are  the  things  our  Father  willed. 

And  bowing  to  Him,  as  we  must, 
Whose  name  is  Love,  whose  way  is 

just, 
We  have  no  refuge,  but  our  trust. 


RETROSPECT. 

0  LOVING  One,  O  Bounteous  One, 
What  have  I  not  received  from  thee, 

Throughout  the  seasons  that  have  gone 
Into  the  past  eternity  ! 

For  looking  backward  through  the  year, 
Along  the  way  my  feet  have  pressed, 

1  see  sweet  places  everywhere, 
Sweet  places,  where  my  soul  had  rest. 

And,  though  some  human  hopes  of  mine 
Are  dead,  and  buried  from  my  sight, 
Yet  from   their  graves  immortal  flow 
ers 

Have   sprung,   and   blossomed   into 
light. 

Body,  and  heart,  and  soul,  have  been 
Fed  by  the  most  convenient  food  ; 

My  nights  are  peaceful  all  the  while, 
And  all  my  mortal  days  are  good. 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE    GARY. 


My  sorrows  have  not  been  so  light, 
The   chastening    hand    I    could   not 
trace  ; 

Nor  have  my  blessings  been  so  great 
That  they  have  hid  my  Father's  face. 


HUMAN  AND  DIVINE. 

VILE,  and  deformed  by  sin  I  stand, 
A  creature  earthy  of  the  earth  ; 

Yet  fashioned  by  God's  perfect  hand, 
And  in  his  likeness  at  my  birth. 

Here  in  a  wretched  land  I  roam, 
As  one  who  had  no  home  but  this  ; 

Yet  am  invited  to  become 
Partaker  in  a  world  of  bliss. 

A  tenement  of  misery, 

Of  clay  is  this  to  which  I  cling : 
A  royal  palace  waits  for  me, 

Built  by  the  pleasure  of  my  King  ! 

My  heavenly  birthright  I  forsake,  — 
An  outcast,  and  unreconciled  ; 

The  manner  of  his  love  doth  make 
My  Father  own  me  as  his  child. 

Shortened  by  reason  of  man's  wrong, 
My  evil  days  I  here  bemoan  ; 

Yet  know  my  life  must  last  as  long 
As  his,  who  struck  it  from  his  own. 

Turned  wholly  am  I  from  the  way,  — 
Lost,  and  eternally  undone  ; 

I  am  of  those,  though  gone  astray, 
The    Father    seeketh    through    the 
Son. 

I  wander  in  a  maze  of  fear, 

Hid  in  impenetrable  night, 
Afar  from  God  —  and  yet  so  near, 

He  keeps  me  always  in  his  sight. 

I  am  as  dross,  and  less  than  dross, 
Worthless  as  worthlessness  can  be  ; 

I  am  so  precious  that  the  cross 
Darkened  the  universe  for  me  ! 

I  am  unfit,  even  from  the  dust, 

Master  !  to  kiss  thy  garment's  hem  : 

I  am  so  dear,  that  thou,  though  just, 
Wilt  not  clespise  me  nor  condemn. 

Accounted  am  I  as  the  least 

Of  creatures  valueless  and  mean  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


377 


Yet  heaven's  own  joy  shall  be  increased 
If  e'er  repentance  wash  me  clean. 

Naked,  ashamed,  I  hide  my  face, 
All  seamed  by  guilt's  defacing  scars  ; 

I  may  be  clothed  with  righteousness 
Above  the  brightness  of  the  stars. 

Lord,  I  do  fear  that  I  shall  go 

Where  death  and  darkness  wait  for 
me  ; 

Lord,  I  believe,  and  therefore  know 
I  have  eternal  life  in  thee  ! 


OVER-PAYMENT. 

I  TOOK  a  little  good  seed  in  my  hand, 
And  cast  it  tearfully  upon  the  land  ; 
Saying,  of  this  the  fowls  of  heaven  shall 

eat, 
Or  the  sun  scorch  it  with  his  burning 

heat. 

Yet  I,  who  sowed,  oppressed  by  doubts 
and  fears, 

Rejoicing  gathered  in  the  ripened  ears  ; 

For  when  the  harvest  turned  the  fields 
to  gold, 

Mine  yielded  back  to  me  a  thousand 
fold. 

A    little   child   begged   humbly  at   my 

door; 
Small  was  the  gift  I  gave  her,  being 

poor, 
But  let  my  heart  go  with  it :  therefore 

we 
Were  both  made  richer  by  that  charity. 

My  soul  with  grief  was  darkened,  I  was 
bowed 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  awful  cloud  ; 

When  one,  whose  sky  was  wholly  over 
spread, 

Came  to  me  asking  to  be  comforted. 

It  roused  me  from  my  weak  and  selfish 

fears  ; 

It  dried  my  own  to  dry  another's  tears  ; 
The  bow,  to  which  I  pointed  in  his  skies, 
Set  all  my  cloud  with  sweetest  promises. 

Once,  seeing  the  inevitable  way 

My  feet   must  tread,  through  difficult 

places  lay  ; 

I  cannot  go  alone,  I  cried,  dismayed,  — 
I  faint,  I  fail,  I  perish,  without  aid  ! 


Yet,  when  I  looked  to  see  if  help  were 

nigh, 

A  creature  weaker,  wretcheder  than  I, 
One  on  whose  head  life's  fiercest  storms 

had  beat, 
Clung  to  my  garments,  falling  at  my 

feet. 

I  saw,  I  paused  no  more  :  my  courage 

found, 
I  stooped  and  raised  her  gently  from 

the  ground  : 
Through  every  peril  safe  I  passed  at 

length, 
For  she  who  leaned  upon  me  gave  me 

strength. 

Once,  when  I  hid  my  wretched  self 
from  Him, 

My  Father's  brightness  seemed  with 
drawn  and  dim  : 

But  when  I  lifted  up  mine  eyes  I  learned 

His  face  to  those  who  seek  is  always 
turned. 

A  half -unwilling  sacrifice  I  made  : 
Ten   thousand   blessings  on   my  head 

were  laid  : 

I  asked  a  comforting  spirit  to  descend  : 
God  made  Himself  my  comforter  and 

friend. 

I    sought    his    mercy   in    a    faltering 

prayer,  ^ 
And   lo  !    his   infinite   tenderness   and 

care, 
Like  a  great  sea,  that  hath  no  ebbing 

tide, 
Encompassed   me  with  love  on  every 

side  ! 


VAIN   REPENTANCE. 

Do  we  not  say,  forgive  us,  Lord, 
Oft  when  too  well  we  understand 

Our  sorrow  is  not  such  as  thou 
Requirest  at  the  sinner's  hand  ? 

Have  we  not  sought  thy  face  in  tears, 
When  our  desire  hath  rather  been 

Deliverance  from  the  punishment, 
Than  full  deliverance  from  the  sin  ? 

Alas  !  we  mourn  because  we  fain 
Would  keep  the  things  we  should  re 
sign  : 


378 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


And  pray,  because  we  cannot  pray  — 
Not  my  rebellious  will,  but  thine  ! 


IN   EXTREMITY. 

THINK  on  him,  Lord  !  we  ask  thy  aid 
In  life's  most  dreaded  extremity  : 

For  evil  days  have  come  to  him, 

Who  in  his  youth  remembered  thee. 

Look  on  him,  Lord  !  for  heart  and  flesh, 
Alike,  must  fail  without  thy  grace  : 

Part   back  the   clouds,    that   he    may 

see 
The  brightness  of  his  Father's  face. 

Speak   to   him,    Lord  !    as    thou  didst 
talk 

To  Adam,  in  the  Garden's  shade, 
And  grant  it  unto  him  to  hear 

Thy  voice,  and  not  to  be  afraid. 

Support  him,  Lord  !  that  he  may  come, 
Leaning  on  thee,  in  faith  sublime, 

Up  to  that  awful  landmark,  set 
Between  eternity  and  time. 

And,  Lord  !    if  it  must  be  that  we 
Shall  walk  with  him  no  more  below, 

Reach  out  of  heaven  thy  loving  hand, 
And  lead  him  where  we  cannot  go. 


PECCAVI. 

I  HAVE  sinned,  I   have  sinned,  before 

thee,  the  Most  Holy  ! 
And  I  come  as  a  penitent,  bowing  down 

lowly, 
With  my  lips  making  freely  their  awful 

admission, 
And  mine  eyes  raining  bitterest  tears 

of  contrition  ; 
And  I  cry  unto  thee,  with  my  mouth  in 

the  dust : 

O  God  !  be  not  just  ! 

O  God  !  be  not  just  ;  but  be  merciful 
rather,  — 

Let  me  see  not  the  face  of  my  Judge 
but  my  Father  : 

A  sinner,  a  culprit,  I  stand  self-con 
victed, 

Yet  the  pardoning  power  is  thine  un 
restricted  ; 


I   am  weak  ;  thou   art  strong  :    in  thy 
goodness  and  might, 

Let  my  sentence  be  light ! 

I  have  turned  from  all  gifts  which  thy 

kindness  supplied  me, 
Because  of  the  one  which   thy  wisdom 

denied  me  ; 
I    have    bandaged    mine   eyes  —  yea, 

mine  own  hands  have  bound  me  ; 
I  have  made  me  a  darkness,  when  light 

was  around  me  : 
And  I  cry  by  the  way-side  :    O   Lord 

that  I  might 

Receive  back  my  sight ! 

For  the  sake  of  my  guilt,  may  my  guilt 

be  forgiven, 
And    because    mine    iniquities   mount 

unto  heaven  ! 
Let   my  sins,    which    are    crimson,  be 

snow  in  their  brightness  ; 
Let  my  sins,  which  are  scarlet,  be  wool 

in  their  whiteness. 
I   am  out  of  the  way,  and   my  soul  is 

dismayed  — 

I  am  lost,  and  afraid. 

I  have  sinned,  and  against  Him  whose 

justice  may  doom  me  ; 
Insulted  his  power  whose  wrath  can 

consume  me  : 
Yet,  by  that  blest  name  by  which  angels 

adore  Him  — 
That  name  through  which  mortals  may 

dare  come  before  Him  — 
I  come,  saying  only,  My  Father  above, 
My  God,  be  thou  Love  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 

O  TIME  by  holy  prophets   long   fore 
told, 
Time  waited  for  by  saints   in  days    of 

old, 

O  sweet,  auspicious  morn 
When  Christ,  the  Lord,  was  born  ! 

Again  the  fixed  changes  of  the  year 
Have  brought  that  season  to  the  world 

most  dear, 

When  angels,  all  aflame, 
Bringing  good  tidings  came. 

Again  we  think  of  her,  the  meek,  the 
mild, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


379 


The    dove-eyed    mother    of   the    holy 

Child, 

The  chosen,  and  the  best, 
Among  all  women  blest. 

We  think  about  the  shepherds,  who, 

dismayed, 
Fell    on    their    faces,    trembling    and 

afraid, 

Until  they  heard  the  cry, 
Glory  to  God  on  high  ! 

And    we  remember    those   who   from 

afar 
Followed  the  changing  glory  of  the  star 

To  where  its  light  was  shed 

Upon  the  sacred  head  : 

And  how  each    trembling,  awe-struck 

worshiper 
Brought  gifts  of  gold  and  frankincense 

and  myrrh, 

And  spread  them  on  the  ground 
In  reverence  profound. 

We  think  what  joy  it  would  have  been 

to  share 
In   their  high   privilege  who  came  to 

bear 

Sweet  spice  and  costly  gem 
To  Christ,  in  Bethlehem. 

And  in  that  thought  we  half  forget  that 
He 

Is  wheresoe'erwe  seek  Him  earnestly; 
Still  filling  every  place 
With  sweet,  abounding  grace. 

And  though  in  garments  of  the  flesh, 

as  then, 
No  more   He  walks  this  sinful  earth 

with  men, 

The  poor,  to  Him  most  dear, 
Are  always  with  us  here. 

And  He  saith,  Inasmuch   as  ye  shall 

take 
Good  to  these  little  ones  for  my  dear 

sake, 

In  that  same  measure  ye 
Have  brought  it  unto  me  ! 

Therefore,  O  men  in  prosperous  homes 

who  live, 
Having  all  blessings  earthly  wealth  can 

give, 

Remember  their  sad  doom 
For  whom  there  is  no  room  — 


No  room  in  any  home,  in  any  bed, 
No  soft  white   pillow   waiting  for  the 
head, 

And  spare  from  treasures  great 

To  help  their  low  estate. 

Mothers  whose  sons  fill  all  your  homes 

with  light, 
Think   of    the   sons   who    once    made 

homes  as  bright, 
Now  laid  in  sleep  profound 
On  some  sad  battle-ground  ; 

And  into  darkened  dwellings  come  with 

cheer, 
With  pitying  hand  to  wipe  the  falling 

tear? 

Comfort  for  Christ's  dear  sake 
To  childless  mothers  take  ! 

Children   whose    lives   are   blest   with 

love  untold, 
Whose  gifts  are  greater  than  your  arms 

can  hold, 

Think  of  the  child  who  stands 
To-day  with  empty  hands  ! 

Go  fill  them  up,  and  you  will  also  fill 
Their   empty  hearts,'  that   lie  so  cold 

and  still, 

And  brighten  longing  eyes 
With  grateful,  glad  surprise. 

May  all  who  have,  at  this  blest  season 

seek 
His  precious  little  ones,  the  poor  and 

weak, 

In  joyful,  sweet  accord, 
Thus  lending  to  the  Lord. 

Yea,    Crucified    Redeemer,    who   didst 

give 
Thy  toil,  thy  tears,  thy  life,  that  we 

might  live, 

Thy  Spirit  grant,  that  we 
May  live  one  day  for  thee  ! 


COMPENSATION. 

CROOKED  and  dwarfed  the  tree  must 

stay, 

Nor  lift  its  green  head  to  the  day, 
Till  useless  growths  are  lopped  away, 

And  thus  doth  human  nature  do  ; 

Till  it  hath  careful  pruning  too, 

It  cannot  grow  up  straight  and  true. 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


For,  but  for  chastenings  severe, 
No  soul  could  ever  tell  how  near 
God  comes,  to  whom  He  loveth,  here. 

Without  life's  ills,  we  could  not  feel 
The  blessed  change  from  woe  to  weal  ; 
Only  the  wounded  limb  can  heal. 

The  sick  and  suffering  learn  below, 
That  which  the  whole  can  never  know, 
Of  the  soft  hand  that  soothes  their  woe. 

And  never  man  is  blest  as  he, 
Who,  freed  from  some  infirmity, 
Rejoices  in  his  liberty. 

He  sees,  with  new  and  glad  surprise, 
The  world  that  round  about  him  lies, 
Who  slips  the  bandage  from  his  eyes  ; 

And  comes  from  where  he  long  hath 

lain, 

Comes  from  the  darkness  and  the  pain, 
Out  into  God's  full  light  again. 

They  only  know  who  wait  in  fear 
The  music  of  a  footstep  near, 
Falling  upon  the  listening  ear. 

And    life's   great   depths   are  soonest 

stirred 

In  him  who  hath  but  seldom  heard 
The  magic  of  a  loving  word. 

Joy  after  grief  is  more  complete  ; 
And  kisses  never  fall  so  sweet 
As  when  long-parted  lovers  meet. 

One  who  is  little  used  to  such, 
Surely  can  tell  us  best  how  much 
There  is  in  a  kind  smile  or  touch. 

:Tis   like   the   spring  wind   from    the 

south, 

Or  water  to  the  fevered  mouth, 
Or  sweet  rain  falling  after  drouth. 

By  him  the  deepest  rest  is  won 
Who  toils  beneath  the  noonday  sun 
Faithful  until  his  work  is  done. 

And  watchers  through  the  weary  night 
Have  learned  how  pleasantly  the  light 
Of  morning  breaks  upon  the  sight. 

Perchance  the  jewel  seems  most  fair 
To  him  whose  patient  toil  and  care 
Has  brought  it  to  the  upper  air. 


And  other  lips  can  never  taste 

A  draught  like  that  he  finds  at  last 

Who  seeks  it  in  the  burning  waste. 

When  to  the  mother's  arms  is  lent, 
That  sweet  reward  for  suffering  sent 
To  her,  from  the  Omnipotent, 

I  think  its  helpless,  pleading  cry 
Touches  her  heart  more  tenderly, 
Because  of  her  past  agony. 

We  learn  at  last  how  good  and  brave 
Was  the  dear  friend  we  could  not  save, 
When  he  has  slipped  into  the  grave. 

And  after  he  has  come  to  hide 
Our  lambs  upon  the  other  side, 
We  know  our  Shepherd  and  our  Guide. 

And  thus,  by  ways  not  understood, 
Out  of  each  dark  vicissitude, 
God  brings  us  compensating  good. 

For  Faith  is  perfected  by  fears, 
And  souls  renew  their  youth  with  years, 
And  Love  looks  into  heaven  through 
tears. 


RECONCILED. 

O  YEARS,  gone  down  into  the  past ; 

What  pleasant  memories  come  to  me, 
Of  your  untroubled  days  of  peace, 

And  hours  almost  of  ecstasy  ! 

Yet  would  I  have  no  moon  stand  still 
Where   life's  most   pleasant  valleys 
lie  ; 

Nor  wheel  the  planet  of  the  day 

Back  on  his  pathway  through  the  sky. 

For  though,  when  youthful  pleasures 
died, 

My  youth  itself  went  with  them,  too  ; 
To-day,  aye  !  even  this  very  hour, 

Is  the  best  time  I  ever  knew. 

Not  that  my  Father  gives  to  me 

More    blessings    than  in  days   gone 
by; 

Dropping  in  my  uplifted  hands 
All  things  for  which  I  blindly  cry : 

But  that  his  plans  and  purposes 

Have  grown  to  me  less  strange  and 
dim  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


381 


And  where  I  cannot  understand, 
I  trust  the  issues  unto  Him. 

And,  spite  of  many  broken  dreams, 

This  have  I  truly  learned  to  say,  — 
The    prayers    I    thought    unanswered 

once, 

Were   answered  in  God's  own  best 
way. 

And  though  some  dearly  cherished 
hopes 

Perished  untimely  ere  their  birth, 
Yet  have  I  been  beloved  and  blessed 

Beyond  the  measure  of  my  worth. 

And  sometimes  in  my  hours  of  grief, 
For  moments  I  have  come  to  stand 

Where  in  the  sorrows  on  me  laid, 
I  felt  a  loving  Father's  hand. 

And  I  have  learned,  the  weakest 
ones 

Are  kept  securest  from  life's  harms  ; 
And  that  the  tender  lambs  alone 

Are  carried  in  the  Shepherd's  arms. 

And,  sitting  by  the  way-side,  blind, 
He  is  the  nearest  to  the  light, 

Who  crieth  out  most  earnestly, 

"  Lord,    that    I    might    receive    my 
sight  !  " 

O  feet,  grown  weary  as  ye  walk, 

Where  down  life's  hill  my  pathway 

lies, 
What    care    I,    while    my     soul     can 

mount, 

As    the    young    eagle    mounts    the 
skies  ! 

O  eyes,  with  weeping  faded  out, 
What  matters  it  how  dim  ye  be  ! 

My  inner  vision  sweeps  untired 
The  reaches  of  eternity  ! 

O  Death,  most  dreaded  power  of  all, 
When  the  last  moment  comes,  and 

thou 

Darkenest  the  windows  of  my  soul, 
Through   which    I    look   on    Nature 
now  ; 

Yea,  when  mortality  dissolves, 

Shall    I  not    meet    thine    hour    un- 
awed  ? 

My  house  eternal  in  the  heavens 
Is  lighted  by  the  smile  of  God  ! 


THOU    KNOWEST. 

LORD,  with  what  body  do  they  come 
Who  in  corruption  here  are  sown, 

When  with  humiliation  done, 

They   wear    the    likeness    of   thine 
own  ? 

Lord,  of  what  manner  didst  thou  make 
The  fruits  upon  life's  healing  tree  ? 

Where  flows  that  water  we  may  take 
And  thirst  not  through  eternity  ? 

Where  lie  the  beds  of  lilies  prest 
By  virgins  whiter  than  their  snow  ? 

What  can  we  liken  to  the  rest 

Thy  well-beloved  yet  shall  know  ? 

And  where  no   moon   shall   shine   by 

night, 

No  sun  shall  rise  and  take  his  place, 
How  shall  we  look  upon  the  light, 
O    Lamb   of    God,   that    lights   thy 
face  ? 

How   shall    we    speak    our    joy    that 
day 

We  stand  upon  the  peaceful  shore, 
Where  blest  inhabitants  shall  say, 

Lo  !  we  are  sick  and  sad  no  more  ? 

What    anthems    shall    they    raise    to 
thee, 

The  host  upon  the  other  side  ? 
What  will  our  depths  of  rapture  be 

When  heart  and  soul  are  satisfied  ? 

How   will   life    seem   when   fear,   nor 

dread, 
Nor    mortal    weakness    chains    our 

powers  ;  * 
When   sin    is    crushed,   and   death   is 

dead, 
And  all  eternity  is  ours  ? 

When,  with  our  lover  and  our  spouse, 

We  shall  as  angels  be  above, 
And   plight  no  troths  and  breathe  no 

vows, 
How  shall  we  tell  and  prove  our  love  ? 

How  can  we  take  in  faith  thy  hand, 
And   walk    the    way   that   we    must 

tread  ? 

How  can  we  trust  and  understand 
That  Christ  will  raise  us  from  the 
dead? 


382 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


We  cannot  see  nor  know  to-day, 
For  He  hath  made  us  of  the'  dust ; 

We  can  but  wait  his  time,  and  say, 
Even    though    He    slay   me,    will    I 
trust  ! 

Swift  to  the  dead  we  hasten  now, 
And  know  not  even  the  way  we  go  ; 

Yet   quick   and    dead    are   thine,   and 

thou  — 
Thou  knowest  all  we  do  not  know  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 

THIS  happy  day,  whose  risen  sun 
Shall  set  not  through  eternity, 

This  holy  day  when  Christ,  the  Lord, 
Took  on  Him  our  humanity, 

For  little  children  everywhere 
A  joyous  season  still  we  make  ; 

We  bring  our  precious  gifts  to  them, 
Even  for  the  dear  child  Jesus'  sake. 

The  glory  from  the  manger  shed, 
Wherein  the  lowly  Saviour  lay, 

Shines  as  a  halo  round  the  head 
Of  every  human  child  to-day. 

And  each  unconscious  infant  sleeps 
Intrusted  to  his  guardian  care  ; 

Hears  his  dear  name  in  cradle  hymns, 
And  lisps  it  in  its  earliest  prayer. 

Thou  blessed  Babe  of  Bethlehem  ! 

Whose  life  we  love,  whose  name  we 

laud  ; 
Thou  Brother,  through  whose  poverty, 

We  have  become  the  heirs  of  God  ; 

Thou  sorrowful,  yet  tempted  Man  — 
Tempted  in  all  things  like  as  we, 

Treading  with  tender,  human  feet, 
The  sharp,  rough  way  of  Calvary  ; 

We  do  remember  how,  by  thee, 

The    sick   were    healed,   the   halting 

led; 

How  thou  didst  take  the  little  ones 
And    pour    thy   blessings    on    their 
head. 

We  know  for  what  unworthy  men 
Thou   once  didst   deign  to  toil  and 
live  ; 

What  weak  and  sinful  women  thou 
Didst  love,  and  pity,  and  forgive. 


And,  Lord,  if  to  the  sick  and  poor 
We  go  with  generous  hearts  to-day, 

Or  in  forbidden  places  seek 

For  such  as  wander  from  the  way  ; 

And  by  our  loving  words  or  deeds 
Make  this  a  hallowed  time  to  them  ; 

Though    we    ourselves    be   found    un 
meet, 
For  sin,  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem  ; 

Wilt  thou  not,  for  thy  wondrous  grace, 

And  for  thy  tender  charity, 
Accept  the  good  we  do  to  these, 

As  we  had  done  it  unto  thee  ? 

And  for  the  precious  little  ones, 

Here  from  their  native  heaven  astray. 

Strong  in  their  very  helplessness, 
To  lead  us  in  the  better  way  ; 

If  we  shall  make  thy  natal  day 
A  season  of  delight  to  these, 

A  season  always  crowded  full 

Of  sweet  and  pleasant  memories  ; 

Wilt  thou  not  grant  us  to  forget 

Awhile  our  weight  of  care  and  pain, 

And  in  their  joys,  bring  back  their  joy 
Of  early  innocence  again  ? 

O  holy  Child,  about  whose  bed 
The  virgin  mother  softly  trod  ; 

Dead  once,  yet  living  evermore, 
O  Son  of  Mary,  and  of  God  ! 

If  any  act  that  we  can  do, 

If  any  thought  of  ours  is  right, 

If  any  prayer  we  lift  to  thee, 

May  find  acceptance  in  thy  sight, 

Hear  us,  and  give  to  us,  to-day, 
In  answer  to  our  earnest  cries, 

Some  portion  of  that  sacred  love 
That    drew   thee    to    us    from    the 
skies  ! 


PRODIGALS. 

AGAIN,  in  the  Book  of  Books,  to-day 
I  read  of  that  Prodigal,  far  away 

In  the  centuries  agone, 
Who  took  the  portion  that  to  him  fell, 
And  went   from  friends    and  home  to 
dwell 

In  a  distant  land  alone. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


383 


And  when  his  riotous  living  was  done, 
And  his  course  of  foolish  pleasure  run, 

And  a  fearful  famine  rose, 
He  fain  would  have  fed  with  the  very 

swine, 
And  no  man  gave  him  bread  nor  wine, 

For  his  friends  were  changed  to  foes. 

And  I  thought,  when  at  last  his  state 

he  knew 
What  a  little  thing  he  had  to  do, 

To  win  again  his  place  : 
Only  the  madness  of  sin  to  learn, 
To  come  to  himself,  repent,  and  turn, 

And  seek  his  father's  face. 

Then  I  thought  however  vile  we  are, 
Not  one  of  us  hath  strayed  so  far 

From  the  things  that  are  good  and 

pure, 

But  if  to  gain  his  home  he  tried, 
He  would  find  the  portal  open  wide, 

And  find  his  welcome  sure. 

My  fellow-sinners,  though  you  dwell 
In  haunts  where  the  feet  take  hold  on 

hell, 

Where  the  downward  way  is  plain  ; 
Think,  who  is  waiting  for  you  at  home, 
Repent,    and    come    to    yourself,    and 

come 
To  your  Father's  house  again  ! 

Say,  out  of  the  depths  of  humility, 
"  I   have  lost  the  claim  of  a  child  on 
thee, 

I  would  serve  thee  with  the  least  !  " 
And  He  will  a  royal  robe  prepare, 
He  will  call  you  son,  and  call  you  heir  ; 

And  seat  you  at  the  feast. 

Yea,  fellow-sinner,  rise  to-day, 
And  run  till  He  meets  you  on  the  way, 
Till  you  hear  the  glad  words  said,  — 
"  Let  joy  through  all  the  heavens  re 
sound, 
For  this,    my   son,    who  was    lost    is 

found, 
And  he  lives  who  once  was  dead" 


ST.  BERNARD  OF  CLAIRVAUX. 

IN  the  shade  of  the  cloister,  long  ago  — 
They  are  dead  and  buried  for  cent 
uries  — 

The  pious  monks  walked  to  and  fro, 
Talking  of  holy  mysteries. 


By  a  blameless  life  and  penance  hard, 
Each  brother  there  had  proved  his 

call; 

But  the  one  we  name  the  St.  Bernard 
Was  the  sweetest  soul  among  them 
all. 

And  oft  as  a  silence  on  them  fell, 
He    would    pause,    and    listen,    and 

whisper  low, 
"  There  is  One  who  waits  for  me  in  my 

cell; 
I  hear  Him  calling,  and  I  must  go  !  " 

No  charm  of  human  fellowship 

His  soul  from  its  dearest  love  can 

bind  ; 

With  a  "  Jesu  Dulcis  "  on  his  lip, 
He  leaves  all  else  that  is  sweet  be 
hind. 

The  only  hand  that  he  longs  to  take, 
Pierced,  from  the  cross  is  reaching 

down  ; 
And  the  head  he  loves,  for  his  dear 

sake 

Was   wounded  once   with    a   thorny 
crown. 

Ah !    men    and    brethren,    He  whose 

call 
Drew  that  holy  monk  with  a  power 

divine, 
Was   the   One  who   is    calling   for  us 

all, 

Was  the  Friend  of  sinners  —  yours 
and  mine  ! 

From   the  sleep  of  the  cradle  to  the 

grave, 
From  the  first  low  cry  till  the  lip  is 

dumb, 

Ready  to  help  us,  and  strong  to  save, 
He    is  calling,  and    waiting    till  we 
come. 

Lord  !    teach  us  always  thy  voice  to 

know, 
And  to  turn  to  thee  from  the  world 

beside, 
Prepared  when  our  time  has  come  to 

go, 
Whether  at  morn  or  eventide. 

And  to  say  when  the  heavens  are  rent 

in  twain, 

When  suns  are  darkened,  and  stars 
shall  flee, 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Lo  !   thou  hast   not   called   for   us    in 

vain, 

And  we  shall   not   call   in  vain  for 
thee! 


THE  WIDOW'S  THANKSGIVING. 

OF  the  precious  years  of  my  life,  to 
day 

,  I  count  another  one  ; 
And  I  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  the  light 

is  good, 
And  't  is  sweet  to  see  the  sun. 

To  watch  the  seasons  as  they  pass, 
Their  wondrous  wealth  unfold, 

Till  the  silvery  treasures  of  the  snow 
Are  changed  to  the  harvest's  gold. 

For    kindly    still    does    the     teeming 
earth 

Her  stores  of  plenty  yield, 
Whether  we  come  to  bind  the  sheaves, 

Or  only  to  glean  in  the  field. 

And  dwelling  in  such  a  pleasant  land, 
Though  poor  in  goods  and  friends, 

We  may  still  be  rich,  if  we  live  con 
tent 
With  what  our  Father  sends. 

If  we  feel  that  life  is  a  blessed  thing  — 

A  boon  to  be  desired  ; 
And  where  not  much  to  us  is  given, 

Not  much  will  be  required  ; 

And  keep  our  natures  sweet  with  the 

sense 

Of  fervent  gratitude, 
That  we  have  been  left  to  live  in  the 

world, 
And  to  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

And  since  there  is  naught  of  all  we 

have, 

That  we  have  not  received  : 
Shall  we  dare,  though  our  treasures  be 

reclaimed, 
To  call  ourselves  bereaved  ? 

For  't  is  easy  to  walk  by  sight  in  the 

day; 

'T  is  the  night  that  tries  our  faith  ; 
And  what  is  that  worth  if  we  render 

thanks 
For  life  and  not  for  death  ? 


Lo  !  I  glean  alone  !    and  the  children, 
Lord, 

Thou  gavest  unto  me, 
Have  one  by  one  fled  out  of  my  arms. 

And  into  eternity. 

Aye,  the  last  and  the  bravest  of  them 
died 

In  prison,  far  away  ; 
And  no  man,  of  his  sepulchre, 

Knoweth  the  place  to-day. 

Yet  is  not  mine  the  bitterness 
Of  the  soul  that  doth  repent ; 

If  I  had  it  now  to  do  again, 

I  would  bless  him  that  he  went. 

There  are  many  writ  in  the  book  of  life 
Whose  graves  are  marked  unknown  ; 

For  his  country  and  his  God  he  died. 
And  He  will  know  his  own  ! 

In  the  ranks  he  fought ;  but  he  stood 
the  first 

And  bravest  in  the  lines  ; 
And  no  fairer,  brighter  name  than  his 

On  the  roll  of  honor  shines. 

And  because  he  faltered  not,  nor  failed 
In  the  march,  nor  under  fire  ; 

His  great  promotion  came  at  last, 
In  the  call  to  go  up  higher. 

Fair  wives,  whose  homes  are  guarded 
round 

By  love's  securities  ; 
Mothers,  who  gather  all  your  flock 

At  night  about  your  knees  ; 

Thrice  happy,  happy  girls,  who  hold 
The  hand  of  your  lovers  fast ; 

Widows,  who  keep  an  only  son 
To  be  your  stay  to  the  last : 

You  never  felt,  though  you  give  God 
thanks 

For  his  blessings  day  by  day, 
That  perfect  peace  which  blesses  Him 

For  the  good  He  takes  away  ; 

The  joy  of  a  soul  that  even  in  pain 

Beholds  his  love's  decrees, 
Who  sets  the  solitary  ones 

In  the  midst  of  families. 

Lord,  help   me   still,  at  the   midnight 

hour, 
My  lamp  of  faith  to  trim  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND   HYMNS. 


385 


And  so   sing  from   my  heart,  at  the 

break  of  clay, 
A  glad  thanksgiving  hymn  : 

Nor  doubt  thy  love,  though  my  earthly 

joys 

Were  narrowed  down  to  this  one, 
So  long  as  the  sweet   day  shines   for 

me, 
And  mine  eyes  behold  the  sun. 


VIA   CRUCIS,   VIA   LUCIS. 

QUESTIONING,  blind,  unsatisfied, 
Out  of  the  dark  my  spirit  cried,  — 
Wherefore  for  sinners,  lost,  undone, 
Gave  the  Father  his  only  Son  ? 

Clear  and  sweet  there  came  reply,  — 
Out  of  my  soul  or  out  of  the  sky 
A  voice  like  music  answered  :  — 
God  so  loved  the  world,  it  said. 

Could  not  the  Lord  from  heaven  give 

aid? 

Why  was  He  born  of  the  mother-rnaid  ? 
Only  the  Son  of  man  could  be 
Touched  with  man1  s  infirmity  ! 

Why  must  He  lay  his  infant  head 

In  the  manger,  where  the  beasts  were 

fed? 

So  that  the  poorest  here  might  cry, 
My  Lord  was  as  lowly  born  as  I ! 

Why  for  friends   did    He   choose    to 

know 

Sinners  and  harlots  here  below  ? 
Not  to  the  righteous  did  He  come, 
But  to  find  and  bring  the  wanderers 

home. 

He  was   tempted  ?     Yes,  He  sounded 

then 

All  that  hides  in  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
And  He  knoweth,  when  we  intercede, 
How  to  succor  our  souls  in  their  need. 

Why  should  they  whom  He  called  his 

own, 

Deny,  betray  Him,  leave  Him  alone  ? 
That  He  might  know  their  direst  pain, 
Who  have  trusted  human  love  in  vain  / 

Must    He    needs     have    washed     the 

traitor's  feet 

Ere  his  abasement  was  made  complete  ? 
25 


Yea,  for  women  have  thus  laid  down 
Their  hearts  for  a  Jit  das  to  trample 

on  ! 

By  one  cup  might  He  not  drink  less  ; 
Nor  lose  one  drop  of  the  bitterness  ; 
Must  He  suffer,  though  without  blame, 
Stripes     and     buffeting,     scorn     and 
shame  ? 

Alas  !  and  wherefore  should  it  be 

That  He  must  die  on  Calvary; 

Must    bear    the    pain    and   the   cruel 

thrust, 
Till   his    heart   with    its    very  anguish 

burst  ? 

That  martyrs,  dying  for  his  name, 
Whether  by  cross,  or  fiood,  orfiame, 
Might  know  they  were  called  to  bear  no 

more 
Than  He,  their  blessed  Af aster,  bore. 

What  did  He  feel  in  that  last  dread 

cry  ? 

The  height  and  the  depth  of  agony  ! 
All  the  anguish  a  mortal  can, 
Who  dies  forsaken  of  God  and  man  ! 

Is  there  no  way  to  Him  at  last 

But  that  where  His  bleeding  feet  have 

passed  ? 

Did  he  not  to  his  followers  say, 
I  am  the  Life,  the  Light,  the  Way  ? 

Yea,   and  still  from  the   heavens  He 

saith 

The  gate  of  life  is  the  gate  of  death  ; 
Peace   is    the  crown    of  faith 's  good 

fight, 
And  the  way  of  the  cross  is  the  way  of 

light ! 


HYMN. 

COME    down,    O    Lord,  and  with   us 
live  ! 

For  here  with  tender,  earnest  call, 
The  gospel  thou  didst  freely  give, 

We  freely  offer  unto  all. 

Come,   with    such   power   and   saving 
grace, 

That  we  shall  cry,  with  one  accord, 
"  How  sweet  and  awful  is  this  place,  — 

This  sacred  temple  of  the  Lord." 


386 


7WE  POEMS  OF  PPICEBE   GARY, 


Let  friend  and  stranger,  one  in  thee, 
P'eel    with    such    power    thy    Spirit 
move, 

That  every  man's  own  speech  shall  be, 
The  sweet  eternal  speech  of  love. 

Yea,  fill  us  with  the  Holy  Ghost, 

Let  burning  hearts  and  tongues  be 
given, 

Make  this  a  day  of  Pentecost, 

A  foretaste  of  the  bliss  of  heaven  ! 


OF   ONE  FLESH. 

A  MAN  he  was  who  loved  the  good, 
Yet  strayed  in  crooked  ways  apart  ; 

He  could  not  do  the  thing  he  would, 
Because  of  evil  in  his  heart. 

He  saw  men  garner  wealth  and  fame, 
Ripe  in  due  time,  a  precious  load  ; 

He  fainted  ere  the  harvest  came, 
And  failed  to  gather  what  he  sowed. 

He  looked  if  haply  grapes  had  grown 
On  the  wild  thorns  that  choked  his 

vines  ; 

When  clear  the  truth  before  him  shone 
He    sought    for    wonders     and    for 
signs. 

Others  Faith's  sheltered  harbor  found, 
The    while     his     bark    was     tossed 
about ; 

Drifting  and  dragging  anchor  round 
The  troubled-,  shoreless  sea  of  doubt. 

Where   he   would   win,   he    could    not 

choose 

But  yield  to  weakness  and  despair  ; 
He  ran  as  they  who  fear  to  lose, 

And  fought  as  one  who   beats  the 
air. 

Walking  where   hosts   of    souls   have 

passed, 
By  faith  and  hope  made  strong  and 

brave, 

He,  groping,  stumbled  at  the  last, 
And  blindly  fell  across  the  grave. 

Yet  speak  of  him  in  charity, 

O    man  !    nor    write   of    blame    one 

line  ; 
Say  that  thou  wert  not  such  as  he  — 

He  was  thy  brother,  and  was  mine  ! 


TEACH   US   TO    WAIT! 

WHY  are  we  so  impatient  of  delay, 

Longing  forever  for  the  time  to  be  ? 
For   thus    we    live    to-morrow    in    to 
day, 

Yea,  sad  to-morrows  we  may  never 
see. 

We  are  too  hasty  ;  are  not  reconciled 
To    let   kind    Nature   do   her   work 

alone  : 
We  plant  our  seed,  and  like  a  foolish 

child 
We  dig  it  up  to  see  if  it  has  grown. 

The  good  that  is  to  be  we  covet  now, 
We  cannot  wait   for   the  appointed 

hour  ; 
Before  the  fruit  is  ripe,  we  shake  the 

bough, 

And  seize  the  bud   that  folds  away 
the  flower. 

When  midnight  darkness  reigns  we  do 

not  see 
That  the  sad  night  is  mother  of  the 

morn  ; 
We    cannot     think     our     own     sharp 

agony 

May  be  the  birth-pang  of  a  joy  un 
born. 

Into  the  dust  we  see  our  idols  cast, 
And  cry,  that  death  has  triumphed. 

life  is  void  ! 
We  do  not  trust  the  promise,  that  the 

last 

Of    all    our    enemies    shall   be   de 
stroyed  ! 


rest    almost   in  sight    the  spirit 

faints, 
And  heart  and  flesh  grow  weary  at  the 

last; 
Our  feet   would  walk  the  city  of  the 

saints, 
Even  before  the  silent  gate  is  passed. 

Teach  us  to  wait  until  thou  shalt  ap 
pear  — 
To  know  that  all  thy  ways  and  times 

are  just  ; 
Thou   seest    that  we   do    believe,  and 

fear, 

Lord,  make  us  also  to  believe    and 
trust ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


387 


IN    HIS   ARMS. 

IF  when  thy  children,  O  my  friend, 
Were  clasped  by  thee,  in  love's  em 
brace, 

Their  guardian  angels,  that  in  heaven 
Always  behold  the  Father's  face  ; 

Thine  earthly  home,  on  shining  wings, 
Had  entered,  as  of  old  they  came, 

To  grant  to  these  whatever  good, 
Thou     shouldst     desire,    in     Jesus' 
name  ;  — 

Or  as  the  loving  sinner  came, 

And  worshiped  when  He  sat  at  meat, 

Couldst    thou,    thyself    have    come    to 

Him, 
And  bowed  thy  forehead  to  his  feet  ; 

And  prayed  Him  by  that  tender  love, 
He   feels    for    those    to    whom    He 

came, 
To  give  to  thy  beloved  ones, 

The    best  'thou    couldst    desire    or 
name  ;  — 

What  couldst  thou  ask  so  great  as  this, 
Out  of  his  love's  rich  treasury, 

That  He  should  take  them  in  his  arms, 
And  bless,  and  keep  them  safe  for 
thee  ? 

Ah !    favored    friend,    nor    faith,    nor 

prayers, 

Nor  richest  offering  ever  brought 
A  token  of  the  Saviour's  love 

So   sweet,  as    thou  hast  gained  un 
sought  ! 


THE  heart  is  not  satisfied  : 
For  more  than  the  world  can  give   it 

pleads  ; 

It  has  infinite  wants  and  infinite  needs  ; 
And  its  every  beat  is  an  awful  cry 
For  love  that   never   can  change  nor 

die  ; 
The  heart  is  not  satisfied  ! 


UNBELIEF. 

FAITHLESS,  perverse,  and  blind, 
We  sit  in  our  house  of  fear, 


When  the  winter  of  sorrow  comes  to 

our  souls, 
And  the  days  of  our  life  are  drear. 

For  when  in  darkness  and  clouds 
The  way  of  God  is  concealed, 

We  doubt  the  words  of  his  promises, 
And  the  glory  to  be  revealed. 

We  do  but  trust  in  part  ; 

We  grope  in  the  dark  alone  ; 
Lord,  when  shall  we  see  thee  as  thou 
art, 

And  know  as  we  are  known  ? 

When  shall  we  live  to  thee 

And  die  to  thee,  resigned, 
Nor  fear  to  hide  what  we  would  keep, 

And  lose  what  we  would  find  ? 

For  we  doubt  our  Father's  care, 
We  cover  our  faces  and  cry, 

If  a  little  cloud,  like  the  hand  of  a  man, 
Darkens  the  face  of  our  sky. 

We  judge  of  his  perfect  day 

By  our  life's  poor  glimmering  spark  ; 
And  measure  eternity's  circle 

By  the  segment  of  an  arc. 

We  say,  they  have  taken  our  Lord, 
And  we  know  not  where  He  lies, 

When  the  light  of  his  resurrection  morn 
Is  breaking  out  of  the  skies. 

And  we  stumble  at  last  when  we  come 
On  the  brink  of  the  grave  to  stand  ; 

As  if  the  souls  that  are  born  of  his  love 
Could  slip  their  Father's  hand  ? 


THE  VISION  ON  THE  MOUNT. 

OH,  if  this  living  soul,  that  many  a  time 
Above  the  low  things  of  the  earth  cloth 

climb, 

Up  to  the  mountain-top  of  faith  sublime, 
If  she  could  only  stay 
In  that  high  place  alway, 
And  hear,  in  reverence  bowed, 
God's  voice  behind  the  cloud  : 

Or  if  descending  to  the  earth  again 
Its  lesson  in  the  heart  might  still  re 
main  ; 

If  we  could  keep  the  vision,  clear  and 
plain, 


388 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Nor  let  one  jot  escape, 
So  that  we  still  might  shape 
Our  lives  to  deeds  sublime 
By  that  exalted  time  : 

Ah  !  what  a  world  were  ours  to  journey 

through  ! 
What   deeds   of    love   and   mercy   we 

should  do  : 

Making  our  lives  so  beautiful  and  true, 
That  in  our  face  would  shine 
The  light  of  love  divine, 
Showing  that  we  had  stood 
Upon  the  mount  of  God. 

But  earthy  of  the  earth,  we  downward 

tend, 
From  the  pure  height  of  faith  our  feet 

descend, 

The  hour  of  exaltation  hath  its  end. 
And  we,  alas  !  forget, 
In  life's  turmoil  and  fret, 
The  pattern  to  us  shown, 
When  on  the  mount  alone. 

Yea,   we   forget   the    rapture   we    had 

known, 

Forget  the  voice  that  talked  to  us  alone, 
Forget  the  brightness  past,  the  cloud 

that  shone  ; 

We  have  no  need  to  veil 
Our  faces,  dim  and  pale, 
So  soon  from  out  them  dies 
The  sweet  light  of  the  skies. 

We  come  down  from  the  height  where 

we  have  been, 
And  build   our    tabernacles    low   and 

mean, 

Not  by  the  pattern  in  the  vision  seen 
Remembering  no  more, 
When  once  the  hour  is  o'er, 
How  in  the  safe  cleft  of  the  rock   on 

high, 

The  shadow  of  the  Lord  has  passed  us 
by. 


A  CANTICLE. 

BE  with    me,   O    Lord,  when   my   life 

hath  increase 

Of  the  riches  that  make  it  complete ; 
When,  favored,  I  walk  in  the  pathway 

of  peace, 

That  is  pleasant  and  safe  to  the  feet : 
Be  with  me  and  keep  me,  when  all  the 
day  long 


Delight  hath  no  taint  of  alloy  ; 
When    my    heart    runneth    over   with 

laughter  and  song, 
And    my   cup    with    the    fullness    of 

joy- 
Be  with  me,  O  Lord,  when  I  make  my 

complaint 

Because  of  my  sorrow  and  care  ; 
Take  the  weight  from  my  soul,  that  is 

ready  to  faint, 

And  give  me  thy  burden  to  bear. 
If  the  sun  of  the  desert  at  noontide,  in 

wrath 

Descends  on  my  shelterless  head, 
Be  thou  the  cool  shadow  and  rock  in 

the  path 
Of  a  land  that  is  weary  to  tread. 

In  the  season  of  sorest  affliction  and 

dread, 
When  my  soul  is  encompassed  with 

fears, 
Till  I  lie  in  the  darkness  awake  on  my 

bed, 

And  water  my  pillow  with  tears  ; 
When  lonely  and  sick,  for  the  tender 

delight 

Of  thy  comforting  presence  I  pray, 
Come  into  my  chamber,  O  Lord,  in  the 

night, 
And  stay  till  the  break  of  the  day. 

Through  the  devious  paths  of  the  world 

be  my  guide, 
Till   its    trials,  and   its  dangers    are 

past  ; 
If  I  walk  through  the  furnace,  be  thou 

by  my  side, 

Be  my  rod  and  my  staff  to  the  last. 
When  my  crudest  enemy  presses  me 

hard 

To  my  last  earthly  refuge  and  rest  - 
Put  thy  arms  underneath  and  about  me, 

O  Lord, 
Let  me  lie  tenderly  on  thy  breast. 

Come  down  when  in  silence  I  slumber 

alone, 
When  the  death  seal  is  set  on  mine 

eyes  ; 
Break  open  the  sepulchre,  roll  off  the 

stone, 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  skies. 
Lord,  lay  me  to  rest  by  the  river,  that 

bright 

From  the  throne   of  thy  glory  doth 
flow  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


389 


Where  the  odorous  beds  of  the  lilies 

are  white 
And  the  roses  of  paradise  blow  ! 


THE    CRY   OF  THE    HEART    AND 
FLESH. 

WHEN  her  mind  was  sore  bewildered, 

And  her  feet  were  gone  astray, 
When  she  saw  no  fiery  column, 

And  no  cloud  before  her  way,  — 
Then,  with  earnest  supplication, 

To  the  mighty  One  she  prayed, 
"  Thou  for  whom  we  were  created, 

And     by    whom     the    worlds    were 

made,  — 
By  thy  pity  for  our  weakness, 

By  thy  wisdom  and  thy  might, 
Son  of  God,  Divine  Redeemer  ! 

Guide  and  keep  me  in  the  right !  " 

When  Faith  had  broke  her  moorings, 

And  upon  a  sea  of  doubt, 
Her  soul  with  fear  and  darkness 

Was  encompassed  round  about  ; 
Then  she  said,  "  O  Elder  Brother  ! 

By  thy  human  nature,  when 
Thou  wert  made  to  be  in  all  things 

Like  unto  the  sons  of  men  ; 
By  the  hour  of  thy  temptation, 

By  thy  one  forsaken  cry, 
Son  of  God  and  man  !  have  mercy, 

Send  thy  light  down  from  on  high  !  " 

When  her  very  heart  was  broken, 

Bearing  more  than  it  could  bear, 
Then  she  clasped  her  anguish,  crying, 

In  her  passionate  despair,  — 
"  Thou  who  wert  beloved  of  women, 

And  who  gav'st  them  love  again, 
By  the  strength  of  thine  affection, 

By  its  rapture  and  its  pain, 
Son  of  God  and  Son  of  woman  ! 

Lo  !  't  is  now  the  eventide  ! 
Come  from  heaven,  O  sacred  lover ! 

With  thine  handmaid  to  abide  ; 
Come  down  as  the  bridegroom  cometh 

From  his  chamber  to  the  bride  !  " 


OUR   PATTERN. 

A  WEAVER  sat  one  day  at  his  loom, 
Among  the  colors  bright, 

With  the  pattern  for  his  copying 
Hung  fair  and  plain  in  sight. 


But  the  weaver's  thoughts  were  wan 
dering 

Away  on  a  distant  track, 
As  he  threw  the  shuttle  in  his  hand 

Wearily  forward  and  back. 

And    he    turned   his  dim  eyes   to    the 

ground, 

And  tears  fell  on  the  woof, 
For  his  thoughts,  alas  !  were  not  with 

his  home, 
Nor  the  wife  beneath  its  roof ; 

When  her  voice  recalled  him  suddenly 
To  himself,  as  she  sadly  said  : 

"  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !    for  your  work  is 

spoiled, 
And  what  will  we  do  for  bread  ?  " 

And  then  the  weaver  looked,  and  saw 
His  work  must  be  undone  ; 

For  the   threads  were  wrong,  and  the 

colors  dimmed, 
Where  the  bitter  tears  had  run. 

"  Alack,  alack  !  "  said  the  weaver, 
"  And  this  had  all  been  right 

If   I  had   not  looked  at  my  work,  but 

kept 
The  pattern  in  my  sight  !  " 

Ah  !  sad  it  was  for  the  weaver, 
And  sad  for  his  luckless  wife  : 

And  sad  will  it  be  for  us,  if  we  say, 
At  the  end  of  our  task  of  life  : 

"  The  colors  that  we  had  to  weave 
Were  bright  in  our  early  years  : 

But   we    wove  the   tissue   wrong,  and 

stained 
The  woof  with  bitter  tears. 

"  We  wove  a  web  of  doubt  and  fear  — 
Not  faith,  and  hope,  and  love  — 

Because  we  looked  at  our  work,  and  not 
At  our  Pattern  up  above  !  " 


THE   EARTHLY    HOUSE. 

"  Ye  are  the  temple  of  God If  any  man  de 
file  the  temple  of  God,  him  will  God  destroy ;  for  the 
the  temple  of  God  is  holy." —  i  CORINTHIANS  iii.  16, 


ONCE  —  in  the  ages  that  have  passed 

away, 
Since  the  fair  morning  of  that  fairest 

day, 


390 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


When  earth,  in  all  her  innocent  beauty, 

stood 
Near  her  Creator,  and   He  called  her 

good  — 
He  who  had  weighed  the  planets  in  his 

hand, 
And  dropped  them  in  the  places  where 

they  stand, 

Builded  a  little  temple  white  and  fair, 
And  of  a  workmanship  so  fine  and  rare 
Even  the  star  that  led  to  Bethlehem 
Had    not    the  value  of  this  wondrous 

gem. 

Then,    that    its   strength   and    beauty 

might  endure, 
He  placed  within,  to  keep  it  clean  and 

pure, 

A  living  human  soul.    To  him  He  said  : 
"  This  is  the   temple   which   my  hands 

have  made 
To  be  thy  dwelling-place,  or  foul  or 

fair, 
As  thou  shalt  make  it   by  neglect   or 

care. 

Mar  or  deface  this  temple's  sacred  wall, 
And  swift  destruction  on  the  work  shall 

fall  : 

Preserve  it  perfect  in  its  purity, 
And  God  Himself  shall  come  and  dwell 

with  thee  !  " 

Then  he  for  whom  that  holy  place  was 

built, 
Fair    as    a   palace  — ah,    what  fearful 

guilt  !  — 

Grew,  after  tending  it  a  little  while, 
Careless,  then  reckless,  and  then  wholly 

vile. 
The  evil  spirits  came   and  dwelt  with 

him  ; 
The  walls   decayed,  and   through  the 

windows  dim 
He    saw  not  this  world's  beauty  any 

more, 
Heard  no  good  angel  knocking  at  his 

door  ; 
And  all  his  house,  because  of  sin  and 

crime, 
Tumbled  and  fell  in  ruin  ere  its  time. 

Oh,  men   and   brethren  !    we  who  live 

to-day 
In    dwellings    made    by    God,    though 

made  of  clay, 

Have  these  our  mortal  bodies  ever  been 
Kept  fit  for  Him  who  made  them  pure 

and  clean  ; 


Or  was  that  soul  in  evil  sunk  so  deep, 
He  spoiled  the  temple  he  was  set  to 

keep, 
And    turned   to   wastefulness    and   to 

abuse 
The    tastes    and   passions    that   were 

meant  for  use  ; 
So  like  ourselves,  that  we,  afraid,  might 

cry  : 
"  Lord,  who  destroyest  the  temple  —  is 

it  I?" 


YE  DID  IT  UNTO  ME. 

SINNER,  careless,  proud,  and  cold, 
Straying  from  the  sheltering  fold, 
Hast  thou  thought  how  patiently 
The  Good  Shepherd  follows  thee  ; 
Still  with  tireless,  toiling  feet, 
Through  the  tempest  and  the  heat  — 
Thought  upon  that  yearning  breast, 
Where  He  fain  would  have  thee  rest, 
And  of  all  its  tender  pain, 
While  He  seeks  for  thee  in  vain  ? 

Dost  thou  know  what  He  must  feel, 
Making  vainly  his  appeal : 
WThen  He  knocketh  at  thy  door 
Present  entrance  to  implore  ; 
Saying,  "  Open  unto  Me, 
I  iu ill  come  and  sup  with  thee  "  — 
Forced  to  turn  away  at  last 
From  the  portal  shut  and  fast  ? 
Wilt  thou  careless  slumber  on, 
Even  till  thy  Lord  has  gone, 
Heedless  of  his  high  behest, 
His  desire  to  be  thy  guest  ? 

Sinner,  sinner,  dost  thou  know 
What  it  is  to  slight  Him  so  ? 
Sitting  careless  by  the  sea 
While  He  calleth,  "  Follow  me"; 
Sleeping,  thoughtless,  unaware 
Of  his  agonizing  prayer, 
While  thy  sins  his  soul  o'erpower, 
And  thou  canst  not  watch  one  hour  ? 
Our  infirmities  He  bore. 
And  our  mortal  form  He  wore  ; 
Yea,  our  Lord  was  made  to  be 
Here  in  all  things  like  as  we, 
And,  that  pardon  we  might  win, 
He,  the  sinless,  bare  our  sin  ! 

Sinner,  though  He  comes  no  more 
Faint  and  fasting  to  thy  door, 
His  disciples  here  instead 
Thou  canst  give  the  cup  and  bread. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND   HYMNS. 


391 


If  his  lambs  thou  dost  not  feed, 
He  it  is  that  feels  their  need  : 
He  that  suffers  their  distress, 
Hunger,  thirst,  and  weariness  : 
He  that  loving  them  again 
Beareth  all  their  bitter  pain  ! 
Canst  thou  then  so  reckless  prove, 
Canst    thou,    darest    thou    slight    his 
love  ? 

Do  not,  sinner,  for  thy  sake 
Make  Him  still  the  cross  to  take, 
And  ascend  again  for  thee 
Dark  and  dreadful  Calvary  ! 
Do  not  set  the  crown  of  pain 
On  that  sacred  head  again  ; 
Open  all  afresh  and  wide 
Closed  wounds  in  hands  and  side. 
Do  not,  do  not  scorn  his  name, 
Putting  Him  to  open  shame  ! 

Oh,  by  all  the  love  He  knew, 
For  his  followers,  dear  and  true  ; 
By  the  sacred  tears  He  wept 
At  the  tomb  where  Lazarus  slept  ; 
By  Gethsemane's  bitter  cry, 
That  the  cup  might  pass  Him  by  ; 
By  that  wail  of  agony, 
Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? 
By  that  last  and  heaviest  stroke, 
When  his  heart  for  sinners  broke, 
Do  not  let  Him  lose  the  price 
Of  his  awful  sacrifice  ! 


THE   SINNER  AT   THE   CROSS. 

HELPLESS  before  the  cross  I  lay, 
With  all  to  lose,  or  all  to  win, 

My  steps  had  wandered  from  the  way, 
My  soul  was  burdened  with  her  sin  ; 

I  spoke  no  word,  I  made  no  plea, 

But  this,  Be  merciful  to  me  ! 

To  meet  his  gaze,  I  could  not  brook, 
Who  for  my  sake  ascended  there  ; 

I  could  not  bear  the  angry  look 

My  dear  offended  Lord  must  wear  ; 

Remembering  how  I  had  denied 

His  name,  my  heart  within  me  died. 

Almost  I  heard  his  awful  voice, 
Sounding  above  my  head  in  wrath  ; 

Fixing  my  everlasting  choice 
With   such  as  tread  the  downward 
path ; 

I  waited  for  the  words,  Depart 

From  me,  accursed  as  thou  art  / 


One  moment,  all  the  world  was  stilled, 
Then,    He    who    saw    my   anguish, 

spoke  ; 

I  heard,  I  breathed,  my  pulses  thrilled, 
And    heart,    and     brain,    and    soul 

awoke  ; 

No  scorn,  no  wrath  was  in  that  tone, 
But  pitying  love,  and  love  alone  ! 

"  And  dost  thou  know,  and  love  not 

me," 
He  said,  "  when  I  have  loved  thee 

so; 
It  was  for  guilty  men  like  thee 

I  came  into  this  world  of  woe  ; 
To  save  the  lost  I  lived  and  died, 
For  sinners  was  I  crucified." 

The  fountain  of  my  tears  was  dried, 
My  eyes  were  lifted  from  the  dust : 

"  Jesus  !  my  blessed  Lord  !  I  cried, 
And  is  it  thou,  I  feared  to  trust  ? 

And  art  thou  He,  I  deemed  my  foe  ; 

The    Friend   to   whom     I    dared    not 
go? 

"  How   could   I  shrink   from   such   as 
thou, 

Divine  Redeemer,  as  thou  art  ! 
I  know  thy  loving  kindness  now, 

I  see  thy  wounded,  bleeding  heart  ; 
I  know  that  thou  didst  give  me  thine, 
And  all  that  thou  dost  ask  is  mine  ! 

"  My  Lord,  my  God  !  I  know  at  last 
Whose  mercy  I  have  dared  offend  ; 

I  own  thee  now,  I  hold  thee  fast, 
My  Brother,  Lover,  and  my  Friend  ! 

Take  me  and  clasp  me  to  thy  breast, 

Bless  me  again,  and  keep  me  blest  ! 

"  Thou   art   the    man,    who    ne'er   re 
fused 

With  sinful  men  to  sit  at  meat  ; 
Who  spake  to  her  who  was  accused 

Of  men,  and  trembling  at  thy  feet, 
As  lips  had  never  spoke  before, 
Go  imcondemned,  and  sin  no  more. 

"  Dear  Lord  !  not  all  eternity 

Thy    image     from     my    heart     can 

move, 
When    thou   didst    turn    and   look   on 

me, 
When  first   I    heard  thy   words   of 

love  ; 

Repent,  believe,  and  thou  shalt  be^ 
To-night  in  Paradise  with  me" 


392 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


THE   HEIR. 

AN  orphan,  through  the  world 

Unfriended  did  I  roam, 
I  knew  not  that  my  Father  lived, 

Nor  that  I  had  a  home. 

No  kindred  might  I  claim, 

No  lover  sought  for  me  ; 
Mine  was  a  solitary  life, 

Set  in  no  family. 

I  yielded  to  despair, 

I  sorrowed  night  and  morn  — 
I  cried,  "  Ah  !  good  it  were  for  me, 

If  I  had  not  been  born  !  " 

At  midnight  came  a  man  — 
He  knocked  upon  my  door  ; 

He  spake  such  tender  words  as  man 
Ne'er  spake  to  me  before. 

I  rose  to  let  him  in, 

I  shook  with  fear  and  dread  ; 
A  lamp  was  shining  in  his  hand, 

A  brightness  round  his  head. 

"  And  who  art  thou,"  I  cried  ; 

"  I  scarce  for  awe  might  speak  ; 
And  why  for  such  a  wretch  as  I 

Dost  thou  at  midnight  seek  ?  " 

"Though    thou    hast    strayed,"     He 
said, 

"  From  me  thou  couldst  not  flee  ; 
I  am  thy  Brother  and  thy  Friend, 

And  thou  shalt  share  with  me  ! 

"  For  me  thou  hast  not  sought, 
I  sought  thee  everywhere  ; 

Thou  hast  a  Father  and  a  home, 
With  mansions  grand  and  fair. 

"  To  thine  inheritance 

I  came  thy  soul  to  bring  ; 
Thou  art  the  royal  heir  of  heaven  — 

The  daughter  of  the  King  !  " 


REALITIES. 

THINGS  that  I  have  to  hold  and  keep, 

ah  !  these 

Are  not  the   treasures  to  my  heart 
most  dear ; 


Though    many    sweet    and     precious 

promises 

Have    had    their    sweet    fulfillment, 
even  here. 

And  yet  to   others,  what   I   name  my 

own 
Poor   unrealities   and    shows    might 

seem  ; 

Since  my  best  house  hath  no  founda 
tion-stone, 
My  tenderest  lover  is  a  tender  dream. 

And  would  you  learn  who  leads  me,  if 

below 

I  choose  the  good  or  from  the  ill  for 
bear  ? 

A  little  child  He  suffered  long  ago 
To  come  unto  his  arms,  and  keeps 
her  there  ! 

The    alms   I  give  the   beggar  at   my 

gate 

I  do  but  lend  to  One  who  thrice  re 
pays  ; 

The  only  heavenly  bread  I  ever  ate 
Came  back  to  find  me,  after   many 
days. 

The  single  friend  whose  presence  can 
not  fail, 

Whose  face  I  always  see  without  dis 
guise^ 
Went  down  into  the  grave  and  left  the 

veil 

Of  mortal  flesh  that  hid  her  from  my 
eyes  ! 

My  clearest  way  is  that  which   faith 

hath  shown, 
Not  that  in  which  by  sight  I  daily 

move  ; 
And  the  most  precious  thing  my  soul 

hath  known 

Is    that   which   passeth    knowledge, 
God's  dear  love. 


HYMN. 

WHEN  the  world  no  solace  gives, 
When  in  deep  distress  I  groan  ; 

When  my  lover  and  my  friend 
Leave  me  with  my  grief  alone  ; 

When  a  weary  land  I  tread, 

Fainting  for  the  rocks  and  springs, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


393 


Overshadow  me,  O  Lord, 

With  the  comfort  of  thy  wings  ! 

When  my  heart  and  flesh  shall  fail, 

When'l  yield  my  mortal  breath, 
When  I  gather  up  my  feet, 

Icy  with  the  chill  of  death  ; 
Strengthen  and  sustain  me,  Lord, 

With  thine  all-sufficient  grace  : 
Overlean  my  dying  bed 

With  the  sweetness  of  thy  face  ! 

When  the  pang,  the  strife  is  past, 

When  my  spirit  mounts  on  high, 
Catch  me  up  in  thine  embrace, 

In  thy  bosom  let  me  lie  ! 
Freed  from  sin  and  freed  from  death, 

Hid  with  thee,  in  heaven  above, 
Oversplendor  me,  O  God, 

With  the  glory  of  thy  love. 


WOUNDED 

O  MEN,  with  wounded  souls, 
O  women,  with  broken  hearts, 

That  have  suffered  since  ever  the  world 

was  made, 
And  nobly  borne  your  parts  ; 

Suffered  and  borne  as  well 

As  the  martyrs  whom  we  name, 

That    went    rejoicing    home,    through 

flood, 
Or  singing  through  the  flame  ; 

Ye  have  had  of  Him  reward 

For  your  battles  fought  and  won, 

Who  giveth  his  beloved  rest 

When    the    day    of    their    work    is 
done. 

Ye  have  changed  for  perfect  peace 
The  pain  of  the  ways  ye  trod  ; 

And  laid  your  burdens  softly  down, 
At  the  merciful  feet  of  God  ! 


A  CRY  OF  THE  HEART. 

OH,  for  a  mind  more  clear  to  see, 
A  hand  to  work  more  earnestly 

For  every  good  intent ; 
Oh,  for  a  Peter's  fiery  zeal, 
His  conscience  always  quick  to  feel, 

And  instant  to  repent ! 


Oh,  for  a  faith  more  strong  and  true 
Than    that   which    doubting    Thomas 
knew, 

A  faith  assured  and  clear; 
To  know  that  He  who  for  us  died, 
Rejected,  scorned,  and  crucified, 

Lives,  and  is  with  us  here. 

Oh,  for  the  blessing  shed  upon 
That  humble,  loving,  sinful  one, 

Who,  when  He  sat  at  meat, 
With  precious  store  of  ointment  came  ; 
Hid  from  her  Lord  her  face  for  shame, 

And  laid  it  on  his  feet. 

Oh,  for  that  look  of  pity  seen 
By  her,  the  guilty  Magdalene, 

Who  stood  her  Judge  before  ; 
And  listening,  for  her  comfort  heard, 
The  tender,  sweet,  forgiving  word  :  — 

Go  thou.  and  sin  no  more  ! 

Oh,    to   have   stood   with    James   and 

John, 
Where  brightness   round  the   Saviour 

shone, 

Whiter  than  light  of  day;     * 
When  by  the  voice  and  cloud  dismayed, 
They  fell  upon  the  ground  afraid, 
'And  wist  not  what  to  say. 

Oh,  to  have  been  the  favored  guest, 
That  leaned  at  supper  on  his  breast, 

And  heard  his  dear  Lord  say: 
He  who  shall  testify  of  Me, 
The  Comforter,  ye  may  not  see 

Except  I  go  away. 

Oh,  for  the  honor  won  by  her, 
Who  early  to    the  sepulchre 

Hastened  in  tearful  gloom  ; 
To  whom  He  gave  his  high  behest, 
To  tell  to  Peter  and  the  rest, 

Their  Lord  had  left  the  tomb. 

Oh,  for  the  vision  that  sufficed 
That  first  blest  martyr  after  Christ, 

And  gave  a  peace  so  deep, 
That  while  he  saw  with  raptured  eyes 
Jesus  with  God  in  Paradise, 

He,  praying,  feel  asleep. 

But  if  such  heights  I  may  not  gain, 
O  thou,  to  whom  no  soul  in  vain 

Or  cries,  or  makes  complaints  ; 
This  only  favor  grant  to  me,  — 
That  I  of  sinners  chief,  may  be 
The  least  of  all  thy  saints  ! 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND  CONSOLATION. 


EARTH  TO  EARTH. 

His  hands  with  earthly  work  are  done, 
His  feet  are  done  with  roving  ; 

We  bring  him  now  to  thee  and  ask, 
The  loved  to  take  the  loving. 

Part   back    thy   mantle,   fringed    with 
green, 

Broidered  with  leaf  and  blossom, 
And  lay  him  tenderly  to  sleep, 

Dear  Earth,  upon  thy  bosom. 

Thy  cheerful  birds,  thy  liberal  flowers, 
Thy  woods  and  waters  only 

Gave  him  their  sweet  companionship 
And  made  his  hours  less  lonely. 

Though  friendship  never  blest  his  way, 
And  love  denied  her  blisses  ; 

No  flower  concealed  her  face  from  him, 
No  wind  withheld  her  kisses. 

Nor  man  hath  sighed,  nor  woman  wept 
To  go  their  ways  without  him  ; 

So,  lying  here,  he  still  will  have 
His  truest  friends  about  him. 


Then 


with 


part    thy   mantle,   fringed 

green, 

Broidered  with  leaf  and  blossom, 
And  lay  him  tenderly  to  sleep, 
Dear  Earth,  upon  thy  bosom  ! 


THE  UNHONORED. 

ALAS,  alas  !  how  many  sighs 

Are   breathed   for   his   sad   fate,    who 

dies 
With  triumph  dawning  on  his  eyes. 


What  thousands  for  the  soldier  weep, 
From  his  first  battle  gone  to  sleep 
That  slumber  which  is  long  and  deep. 

But  who  about  his  fate  can  tell, 
Who  struggled  manfully  and  well  ; 
Yet  fainted  on  the  march,  and  fell  ? 

Or  who  above  his  rest  makes  moan, 
Who  dies  in  the  sick-tent  alone  — 
"  Only  a  private,  name  unknown  !  " 

What  tears  down  Pity's  cheek  have  run 

For  poets  singing  in  the  sun, 

Stopped  suddenly,  their  song  half  done. 

But  for  the  hosts  of  souls  below, 
Who  to  eternal  silence  go, 
Hiding  their  great  unspoken  woe  ; 

Who  sees  amid  their  ranks  go  down, 

Heroes,  that  never  won  renown, 

And  martyrs,  with  no  martyr's  crown  ? 

Unrecognized,  a  poet  slips 
Into  death's  total,  long  eclipse, 
With    breaking    heart,    and    wordless 
lips  ; 

And  never  any  brother  true 

Utters  the  praise  that  was  his  due  — 

"  This  man  was  greater  than  ye  knew  !  " 

No  maiden  by  his  grave  appears, 
Crying  out  in  long  after  years, 
"  I  would  have  loved  him,"  through  her 
tears. 

We  weep  for  her,  untimely  dead, 
Who  would  have  pressed  the  marriage - 

bed, 
Yet  to  death's  chamber  went  instead. 


POEMS   OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


395 


But  who  deplores  the  sadder  fate. 
Of  her  who  finds  no  mortal  mate, 
And  lives  and  dies  most  desolate  ? 

Alas  !  't  is  sorrowful  to  know 

That  she  who  finds  least  love  below, 

Finds  least  pity  for  her  woe. 

Hard  is  her  fate  who  feels  life  past, 
When    loving    hands    still     hold    her 

fast, 
And  loving  eyes  watch  to  the  last. 

But  she,  whose  lids  no  kisses  prest, 
Who  crossed  her  own   hands  on  her 

breast, 
And  went  to  her  eternal  rest ; 

She  had  so  sad  a  lot  below, 

That  her  unutterable  woe 

Only  the  pitying  God  can  know  ! 

When  little  hands  are  dropped  away 
From  the  warm  bosom  where  they 

lay, 
And  the  poor  mother  holds  but  clay  ; 

What  human  lip  that  does  not  moan, 
What  heart  that  does  not  inly  groan, 
And  make  such  suffering  its  own  ? 

Yet,  sitting  mute  in  their  despair, 
With  their  unnoticed  griefs  to  bear, 
Are  childless  women  everywhere  ; 

Who  never  knew,  nor  understood, 
That  which  is  woman's  greatest  good, 
The  sacredness  of  motherhood. 

But  putting    down    their    hopes    and 

fears, 

Claiming  no  pity  and  no  tears, 
They  live  the  measure  of  their  years. 

They  see  age  stealing  on  apace, 

And   put   the   gray   hairs    from    their 

face, 
No  children's  fingers  shall  displace  ! 

Though  grief  hath   many  a   form  and 

show, 

I  think  that  unloved  women  know 
The  very  bottom  of  life's  woe  ! 

And  that  the  God,  who  pitying  sees, 
Hath  yet  a  recompense  for  these, 
Kept  in  the  long  eternities  ! 


JENNIE. 

You  have  sent  me  from  her  tomb 
A  poor  withered  flower  to  keep, 
Broken  off  in  perfect  bloom, 

Such  as  hers,  who  lies  asleep  — 
Underneath  the  roses  lies, 
Hidden  from  your  mortal  eyes, 
Never  from  your  heart  concealed, 
Always  to  your  soul  revealed. 

Oh,  to  think,  as  day  and  night 

Come  and  go,  and  go  and  come, 
How  the  smile  which  was  its  light 

Hath  been  darkened  in  your  home  ! 
Oh,  to  think  that  those  dear  eyes, 
Copied  from  the  summer  skies, 
Could  have  veiled  their  heavenly  blue 
From  the  sunshine,  and  from  you  ! 

Oh,  to  have  that  tender  mouth, 
With  its  loveliness  complete, 

Shut  up  in  its  budding  youth 

From  all  kisses,  fond  and  sweet ! 

Fairest  blossom,  red  and  rare, 

Could  not  with  her  lips  compare  ; 

Yea,  her  mouth's  young  beauty  shamed 

All  the  roses  ever  named. 

Why  God  hid  her  from  your  sight, 

Leaving  anguish  in  her  place, 
At  the  noonday  sent  the  night, 

Night  that  almost  hid  his  face, 
Not  to  us  is  fully  shown, 
Not  to  mortals  can  be  known, 
Though  they  strive,  through  tears  and 

doubt, 
Still  to  guess  his  meaning  out. 

Full  of  mystery  't  is,  and  yet 

If  you  clasped  still  those  charms, 
Mother,  might  you  not  forget 

Mothers  who  have  empty  arms  ? 
If  you  satisfied  in  her 

Every  want  and  every  need. 
Could  you  be  a  comforter 

To  the  hearts  that  moan  and  bleed  ? 

Take  this  solace  for  your  woe  : 

God's  love  never  groweth  dim  ; 
All  of  goodness  that  you  know, 

All  your  loving  comes  from  him  ! 
You  say,  "  She  has  gone  to  death  !  " 
Very  tenderly,  God  saith  : 
"  Better  so  ;  I  make  her  mine, 
And  my  love  exceed ctli  thine  /  " 


396 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


COWPER'S  CONSOLATION.* 

HE  knew  what  mortals  know  when  tried 
By   suffering's   worst    and    last   ex 
treme  ; 
He  knew  the  ecstacy  allied 

To  bliss  supreme. 

Souls,  hanging  on  his  melody, 

Have  caught  his  rapture  of  belief; 
The  heart  of  all  humanity 

Has  felt  his  grief. 

In  sweet  compassion  and  in  love 

Poets  about  his  tomb  have  trod  ; 
And  softly  hung  their  wreaths  above 

The  hallowed  sod. 

His  hymns  of  victory,  clear  and  strong, 

Over  the  hosts  of  sin  and  doubt, 
Still  make  the  Christian's  battle-song, 
And  triumph-shout. 

Tasting  sometimes  his  Father's  grace, 

Yet  for  wise  purposes  allowed 
Seldom  to  see  the  "smiling  face  " 

Behind  the  cloud  ; 

Surely  when  he  was  left  the  prey 

Of  torments  only  Heaven  can  still, 
"  God  moved  in  a  mysterious  way  " 

To  work  his  will. 

Yet  many  a  soul  through  life  has  trod 

Untroubled  o'er  securest  ground, 
Nor    knew    that    "closer    walk     with 
God" 

His  footsteps  found. 

With  its  great  load  of  grief  to  bear, 
The  reed,  though  bruised,  might  not 

break  ; 
God  did  not  leave  him  to  despair, 

Nor  quite  forsake. 

The  pillow  by  his  tear-drops  wet, 

The   stoniest   couch   that   heard  his 

cries, 
Had  near  a  golden  ladder  set 

That  touched  the  skies. 

1  The  most  important  events  of  Cowper's  latter 
years  were  audibly  announced  to  him  before  they  oc 
curred.  We  find  him  writing  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  "  ap 
proaching  and  sudden  death,"  when  her  health,  al 
though  feeble,  was  not  such  as  to  occasion  alarm. 
His  lucid  intervals,  and  the  return  of  his  disorder, 
were  announced  to  him  in  the  same  remarkable 
manner.  —  Cowper's  A  udible  Illusions. 


And  at  the  morning  on  his  bed, 

And  in  sweet  visions  of  the  night, 
Angels,  descending,  comforted 

His  soul  with  light. 

Standing  upon  the  hither  side, 

How  few  of  all  the  earthly  host 
Have  signaled  those  whose  feet  have 
trod 

The  heavenly  coast. 

Yet  his  it  was  at  times  to  see, 

In  glimpses  faint  and  half-revealed, 
That  strange  and  awful  mystery 

By  death  concealed. 

And,  as  the  glory  thus  discerned 

His     heart     desired,     with     strong 

desire  ; 

By  seraphs  touched,  his  sad  lips  burned 
With  sacred  fire. 

As  ravens  to  Elijah  bare, 

At    morn    and    eve,    the    promised 

bread  ; 
So  by  the  spirits  of  the  air 

His  soul  was  fed. 

And,  even  as  the  prophet  rose 

Triumphant  on  the  flames  of  love, 
The  fiery  chariot  of  his  woes 

Bore  him  above. 

Oh,  shed  no  tears  for  such  a  lot, 

Nor    deem    he    passed    uncheered, 

alone  ; 

He   walked   with   God,    and    he    was 
not, 

God  took  his  own  ! 


TWICE  SMITTEN. 

O  DOUBLY-BOWED  and  bruised  reed, 
What  can  I  offer  in  thy  need  ? 

O  heart,  twice  broken  with  its  grief, 
What    words    of   mine    can   bring    re 
lief  ? 

O  soul,  o'erwhelmed  with  woe  again, 
How  can  I  soothe  thy  bitter  pain  ? 

Abashed  and  still,  I  stand  and  see 
Thy  sorrow's  awful  majesty. 

Only  dumb  silence  may  convey 
That  which  my  lip  can  never  say. 


FOE  ATS   OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


397 


I  cannot  comfort  thee  at  all ; 
On  the  Great  Comforter  I  call ; 

Praying  that  He  may  make  thee  see 
How    near    He   hath    been   drawn   to 
thee. 

For  unto  man  the  angel  guest 
Still  comes  through  gates  of  suffering 
best ; 

And  most  our  Heavenly  Father  cares 
For  whom  He  smites,  not  whom  He 
spares. 

So,  to  his  chastening  meekly  bow, 
Thou  art  of  his  beloved  now  ! 


BORDER-LAND. 

I  KNOW  you  are  always  by  my  side 
And  I  know  you  love  me,  Winifred 

dear, 
For  I  never  called  on  you  since  you 

died, 

But  you   answered,   tenderly,   I   am 
here  ! 

So    come    from    the    misty    shadows, 

where 
You  came  last  night,  and  the  night 

before, 
Put    back    the    veil    of    your    golden 

hair, 

And  let  me  look  in  your  face  once 
more. 

Ah  !  it  is  you  ;  with  that  brow  of  truth, 

Ever  too  pure  for  the  least  disguise  ; 

With  the  same  dear  smile  on  the  loving 

mouth, 
And  the  same  sweet  light  in  the  tender 

eyes. 

You  are  my  own,  my  darling  still, 
So  do  not  vanish  or  turn  aside, 

Wait  till  my  eyes  have  had  their  fill,  — 
Wait  till  my  heart  is  pacified  ! 

You  have  left  the  light  of  your  higher 

place, 
And  ever  thoughtful,  and  kind,  and 

good, 

You  come  with  your  old  familiar  face, 
And  not  with  the  look  of  your  angel 
hood. 


Still  the  touch  of  your  hand  is  soft  and 

light, 
And  your  voice  is  gentle,  and  kind, 

and  low, 

And  the  very  roses  you  wear  to-night, 
You  were  in  the  summers  long  ago. 

O  world,  you  may  tell  me  I  dream  or 

rave, 

So  long  as  my  darling  comes  to  prove 
That  the  feet  of  the  spirit  cross  the 

grave, 

And  the  loving  live,  and  the  living 
love  ! 


THE  LAST  BED. 

'T  WAS  a  lonesome  couch  we  came  to 
spread 

For  her,  when  her  little  life  was  o'er, 
And  a  narrower  one  than  any  bed 

Whereon  she  had  ever  slept  before. 

And  we  feared  that  she  could  not  slum 
ber  so, 
As  we  stood  about  her  when  all  was 

done, 
For  the   pillow  seemed  too  hard   and 

low 
For  her  precious  head  to  rest  upon. 

But,  when  we  had  followed  her  two  by 

two, 
And  lowered  her  down  there  where 

she  lies, 

There  was  nothing  left  for  us  to  do, 
But  to  hide   it  all  from  our  tearful 
eyes. 

So  we  softly  and  tenderly  spread  be 
tween 

Our  face  and  the  face  our  love  re 
grets, 

A  covering,  woven  of  leafy  green, 
And  spotted  over  with  violets. 


LIGHT. 

WHILE  I  had  mine  eyes,  I  feared ; 
The     heavens     in     wrath    seemed 

bowed  ; 
I  look,  and  the  sun  with  a  smile  breaks 

forth, 
And  a  rainbow  spans  the  cloud. 


398 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


I  thought  the  winter  was  here, 
That  the  earth  was  cold  and  bare, 

But   I   feel  the    coming   of  birds    and 

flowers, 
And  the  spring-time  in  the  air. 

I  said  that  all  the  lips 

I  ever  had  kissed  were  dumb  ; 
That  my  dearest  ones  were  dead  and 
gone, 

And  never  a  friend  would  come. 

But  I  hear  a  voice  as  sweet 

As  the  fall  of  summer  showers  ; 

And  the  grave  that  yawned  at  my  very 

feet 
Is  filled  to  the  top  with  flowers  ! 

As  if  't  were  the  midnight  hour, 

I  sat  with  gloom  opprest  ; 
When  a  light  was  breaking  out  of  the 
east, 

And  shining  unto  the  west. 

I  heard  the  angels  call 

Across  from  the  beautiful  shore  ; 
And    I    saw   a   look    in  my    darling's 
eyes, 

That  never  was  there  before. 

Transfigured,  lost  to  me, 

She  had  slipped  from  my  embrace  ; 
Now  lo  !  I  hold  her  fast  once  more, 

With    the     light    of     God    on    her 
face  ! 


WAITING  THE   CHANGE. 

I  HAVE  no  moan  to  make, 

No  bitter  tears  to  shed  ; 
No  heart,  that  for  rebellious  grief, 

Will  not  be  comforted. 

There  is  no  friend  of  mine 
Laid  in  the  earth  to  sleep  ; 

No  grave,  or  green  or  heaped  afresh, 
By  which  I  stand  and  weep. 

Though  some,  whose  presence  once 
Sweet  comfort  round  me  shed, 


Here  in  the  body  walk  no  more 
The  way  that  I  must  tread, 

Not  they,  but  what  they  wore 
Went  to  the  house  of  fear  ; 

They  were  the  incorruptible, 
They  left  corruption  here. 

The  veil  of  flesh  that  hid 

Is  softly  drawn  aside  ; 
More  clearly  I  behold  them  now 

Than  those  who  never  died. 

Who  died  !  what  means  that  word 
Of  men  so  much  abhorred  ? 

Caught  up  in  clouds  of  heaven  to  be 
Forever  with  the  Lord  ! 

To  give  this  body,  racked 
With  mortal  ills  and  cares, 

For  one  as  glorious  and  as  fair, 
As  our  Redeemer  wears  ; 

To  leave  our  shame  and  sin, 

Our  hunger  and  disgrace  ; 
To  come  unto  ourselves,  to  turn 

And  find  our  Father's  face  ; 

To  run,  to  leap,  to  walk, 

To  quit  our  beds  of  pain, 
And  live  where  the  inhabitants 

Are  never  sick  again  ; 

To  sit  no  longer  dumb, 

Nor  halt,  nor  blind  ;  to  rise  — 

To  praise  the  Healer  with  our  tongue, 
And  see  him  with  our  eyes  ; 

To  leave  cold  winter  snows, 
And  burning  summer  heats, 

And  walk  in  soft,  white,  tender  light, 
About  the  golden  streets. 

Thank  God  !  for  all  my  loved, 

That  out  of  pain  and  care, 
Have     safely    reached    the     heavenly 
heights, 

And  stay  to  meet  me  there  ! 

Not  these  I  mourn  ;  I  know 
Their  Joy  by  faith  sublime  — 

But  for  myself,  that  still  below 
Must  wait  my  appointed  time. 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


READY. 

LOADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 

A  boat  shot  in  to  the  land, 
And    lay   at   the   right    of    Rodman's 
Point, 

With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid, 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire, 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 
Of  the  boat ;  and  the  captain  said  : 

"  If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured, 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead  !  " 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 

.  No  slavish  soul  had  he  ; 
"  Somebody 's  got  to  die,  boys, 
And  it  might  as  well  be  me  !  " 

Firmly  he  rose,  and  fearlessly 

Stepped  out  into  the  tide  ; 
He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 

Then  fell  across  her  side  : 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 
As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free  ;  — 

But  there  was  n't  a  man  of  them  that 

day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he  ! 


DICKENS. 

"ONE  story  more,"  the  whole  world 
cried. 

The  great  magician  smiled  in  doubt : 
"  I  am  so  tired  that,  if  I  tried, 

I  fear  I  could  not  tell  it  out." 


"  But  one  is  all  we  ask,"  they  said  ; 

"  You  surely  cannot  faint  nor  fail." 
Again  he  raised  his  weary  head, 

And  slow  began  the  witching  tale. 

The  fierce  debater's  tongue  grew  mute, 
Wise  men  were  silent  for  his  sake  ; 

The  poet  threw  aside  his  lute, 

And    paused    enraptured   while    he 
spake. 

The  proudest  lady  in  the  land 

Forgot  that  praise  and  power  were 

sweet ; 
She    dropped    the    jewels     from    her 

hand, 
And  sat  enchanted  at  his  feet. 

Lovers,    with    clasped    hands    lightly 

prest, 
Saw  Hope's  sweet  blossoms  bud  and 

bloom  ; 

Men,  hastening  to  their  final  rest, 
Stopped,    half-enraptured    with    the 
tomb. 

Children,    with    locks    of    brown   and 

gold, 

Gathered  about  like  flocks  of  birds  ; 
The  poor,  whose  story  he  had  told, 
Drew   near   and   loved   him  for  his 
words. 

His    eye    burns    bright,    his    voice    is 
strong, 

A  waiting  people  eager  stands  ; 
Men  on  the  outskirts  of  the  throng 

Interpret  him  to  distant  lands. 

When  lo  !  his  accents,  faltering,  fal'  ; 
The  nations,  awe-struck,  hold  their 
breath  : 


400 


THE  POEMS  OF  PIKEBE   CARY. 


The  great  magician,  loved  of  all, 

Has  sunk  to  slumber,  tired  to  death  ! 

His  human  eyes  in  blind  eclipse 
Are  from  the  world  forever  sealed  ; 

The  "  mystery  "  trembling  on  his  lips 
Shall  never,  never  be  revealed. 

Yet  who  would  miss  that  tale  half  told, 
Though  weird  and  strange,  or  sweet 

and  true  ; 
Who  care  to  listen  to  the  old, 

If  he   could   hear   the   strange   and 
new  ? 

Alas  !  alas  !  it  cannot  be  ; 

We  too  must  sleep  and  change  and 

rise, 
To  learn  the  eternal  mystery 

That  dawned  upon  his  waking  eyes  ! 


THADDEUS   STEVENS. 

AN  eye  with  the  piercing  eagle's  fire, 
Not  the  look  of  the  gentle  dove  ; 

Not  his  the  form  that  men  admire, 
Nor   the    face    that    tender   women 
love. 

Working  first  for  his  daily  bread 

With    the   humblest   toilers   of    the 
earth  ; 

Never  walking  with  free,  proud  tread  — 
Crippled  and  halting  from  his  birth. 

Wearing  outside  a  thorny  suit 

Of  sharp,  sarcastic,  stinging  power  ; 

Sweet  at  the  core  as  sweetest  fruit, 
Or  inmost  heart  of  fragrant  flower. 

Fierce  and  trenchant,  the  haughty  foe 
Felt  his  words  like  a  sword  of  flame  ; 

But  to  the  humble,  poor,  and  low 
Soft  as  a  woman's  his  accents  came. 

Not  his  the  closest,  tenderest  friend  — 
No  children  blessed  his  lonely  way  ; 

But  down  in  his  heart  until  the  end 
The   tender   dream  of  his  boyhood 
lay. 

His  mother's  faith  he  held  not  fast ; 

But  he  loved  her  living,  mourned  her 

dead, 
And  he  kept  her  memory  to  the  last 

As  green  as  the  sod  above  her  bed. 


He  held  as  sacred  in  his  home 

Whatever    things    she   wrought    or 

planned, 

And  never  suffered  change  to  come 
To   the   work  of    her   "  industrious 
hand." 

For  her  who  pillowed  first  his  head 
He  heaped  with  a  wealth  of  flowers 

the  grave, 

While  he  chose  to  sleep  in  an  un 
marked  bed, 

By  his  Master's  humblest  poor —  the 
slave.1 

Suppose  he  swerved  from  the  straight- 

est  course  — 
That  the  things  he  should  not  do  he 

did  — 
That  he  hid  from  the  eyes  of  mortals, 

close, 
Such  sins  as  you  and  I  have  hid  ? 

Or  suppose  him  worse  than  you ;  what 
then  ? 

Judge  not,  lest  you  be  judged  for  sin  ! 
One  said  who  knew  the  hearts  of  men  : 

Who  loveth  much  shall  a  pardon  win. 

The  Prince  of  Glory  for  sinners  bled  ; 
His    soul  was  bought  with  a  royal 

price  ; 
And  his  beautified  feet  on  flowers  may 

tread 
To-day  with  his  Lord  in  Paradise. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

GREAT  master  of  the  poet's  art ! 

Surely  the  sources  of  thy  powers 
Lie  in  that  true  and  tender  heart 

Whose  every  utterance  touches  ours. 

For,  better  than  thy  words,  that  glow 
With  sunset  dyes  or  noontide  heat, 

That  count  the  treasures  of  the  snow, 
Or  paint  the  blossoms  at  our  feet, 

Are   those   that   teach   the    sorrowing 

how 
To  lay  aside  their  fear  and  doubt, 


1  Thaddeus  Stevens,  who  cared  nothing  about  his 
own  burial-place,  except  that  the  spot  should  be  one 
from  which  the  humblest  of  his  fellow-creatures  were 
not  excluded,  left  by  will  one  thousand  dollars  to 
beautify  and  adorn  the  grave  of  his  mother. 


PERSONAL  POEMS, 


401 


And  in  submissive  love  to  bow 
To  love  that  passeth  finding  out. 

And  thou  for  such  hast  come  to  be 
In  every  home  an  honored  guest  — 

Even  from  the  cities  by  the  sea 
To  the  broad  prairies  of  the  West. 

Thy   lays   have   cheered    the    humble 

home 
Where  men  who  prayed  for  freedom 

knelt; 

And  women,  in  their  anguish  dumb, 
Have  heard  thee  utter  what  they  felt. 

And  thou  hast  battled  for  the  right 
With   many  a  brave   and  trenchant 
word. 

And  shown  us  how  the  pen  may  fight 
A  mightier  battle  than  the  sword. 

And  therefore  men  in  coming  years 
Shall    chant    thy   praises   loud   and 

long  ; 
And  woman  name  thee  through  their 

tears 
A  poet  greater  than  his  song. 

But  not  thy  strains,  with  courage  rife, 
Nor  holiest  hymns,  shall  rank  above 

The  rhythmic  beauty  of  thy  life, 
Itself  a  canticle  of  love  ! 


THE  HERO  OF  FORT  WAGNER. 

FORT  Wagner  !  that  is  a  place  for  us 
To  remember  well,  my  lad  ! 

For  us,  who  were  under  the  guns,  and 

know 
The  bloody  work  we  had. 

I  should  not  speak  to  one  so  young, 

Perhaps,  as  I  do  to  you ; 
But  you  are  a  soldier's  son,  my  boy, 

And  you  know  what  soldiers  do. 

And   when   peace   comes  to  our  land 
again, 

And  your  father  sits  in  his  home, 
You  will  hear  such  tales  of  war  as  this, 

For  many  a  year  to  come. 

We  were  repulsed  from  the  Fort,  you 

know, 

And  saw  our  heroes  fall, 
Till'the  dead  were  piled  in  bloody  heaps 
Under  the  frowning  wall. 
26 


Yet  crushed  as  we  were  and  beaten 
back, 

Our  spirits  never  bowed; 
And  gallant  deeds  that  day  were  done 

To  make  a  soldier  proud. 

Brave  men  were  there,  for  their  coun 
try's  sake 

To  spend  their  latest  breath  ; 
But  the  bravest  was  one  who  gave  his 

life 
And  his  body  after  death. 

No  greater  words  than  his  dying  ones 
Have  been  spoken  under  the  sun  ; 

Not  even  his,  who  brought  the  news 
On  the  field  at  Ratisbon. 

I  was  pressing  up,  to  try  if  yet 
Our  men  might  take  the  place, 

And  my  feet  had  slipped  in  his  oozing 

blood 
Before  I  saw  his  face. 

His  face  !    it  was  black  as  the  skies 

o'erhead 

With  the  smoke  of  the  angry  guns  ; 
And  a  gash  in  his  bosom  showed  the 

work 
Of  our  country's  traitor  sons. 

Your  pardon,  my  poor  boy  !  I  said, 

I  did  not  see  you  here  ; 
But  I  will  not  hurt  you  as  I  pass  ; 

I  '11  have  a  care  ;  no  fear  ! 

He  smiled  ;  he  had  only  strength  to 
say 

These  words,  and  that  was  all : 
"  I  'm  done  gone,  Massa  ;  step  on  me  ; 

And  you  can  scale  the  wall !  " 


GARIBALDI  IN  PIEDMONT. 

HEMMED  in  by  the  hosts  of  the  Aus- 
trians, 

No  succor  at  hand, 
Adown  the  green  passes  of  Piedmont, 

That  beautiful  land, 

Moves  a  patriot  band. 

Two  long  days  and    nights,  watchful, 

sleepless, 

Have  they  ridden  nor  yet 
Checked  the  rein,  though  the  feet  of 

their  horses, 


402 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHOEBE   GARY. 


In  the  ripe  vineyard  set, 
By  its  wine  have  been  wet. 

What   know   they   of  weariness,   hun 
ger, 

What  good  can  they  lack, 
While  they  follow  their  brave  Garibaldi, 

Who  never  turns  back. 

Never  halts  on  his  track  ? 

By   the   Austrians   outnumbered,    sur 
rounded, 

On  left  and  on  right  ; 
Strong  and   fearless   he   moves    as    a 

giant, 

Who  rouses  to  fight 
From  the  slumbers  of  night. 

So,  over  the  paths  of  Orfano, 
His  brave  horsemen  tread, 

Long  after  the  sun,  halting  wearied, 
Hath  hidden  his  head 
In  his  tent-folds  of  red. 

Every  man  with  his  eye  on  his  leader, 
Whom  a  spell  must  have  bound, 

For  he  rideth  as  still  as  the  shadow, 
That  keeps  step  on  the  ground, 
In  a  silence  profound. 

With  the  harmony  Nature  is  breathing, 

His  soul  is  in  tune  ; 
He  is  bathed  in  a  bath  of  the  splen 
dor 

Of  the  beautiful  moon, 

Of  the  air  soft  as  June  ! 

But  what  sound  meets  the  ear  of  the 
soldier ; 

What  menacing  tone  ? 
For  look  !   how  the  horse  and  the  rider 

Have  suddenly  grown 

As  if  carved  in  stone. 

Leaning  down  toward  that  fair  grove  of 

olives 

He  waits  ;  doth  it  mean 
That  he  catches  the  tramp  of  the  Aus 
trians. 

That  his  quick  eye  hath  seen 
Their  bayonets'  sheen  ? 

Nay  !    there,    where   the   thick  leaves 
about  her 

By  the  music  are  stirred, 
Sits  a 'nightingale  singing  her  rapture, 

And  the  hero  hath  heard 

But  the  voice  of  a  bird  ! 


A  hero  !  aye,  more  than  a  hero 

By  this  he  appears  ; 
A  man,  with  a  heart  that  is  tender, 

Unhardened  by  years  ; 

Who  shall  tell  what  he  hears  ? 

Not  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  only, 
Floating  soft  on  the  breeze, 

But  the  music  of  dear  human  voices, 
And  blended  with  these 
The  sound  of  the  seas. 

Ah,  the  sea,  the  dear  sea  !  from    the 

cradle 

She  took  him  to  rest ; 
Leaping    out    from   the    arms    of    his 

mother, 

He  went  to  her  breast 
And  was  softly  caressed. 

Perchance  he  is  back  on  her  bosom, 
Safe  from  fear  or  alarms, 

Clasping  close  as  of  old  that  first  mis 
tress 

Whose  wonderful  charms 
Drew  him  down  to  her  arms. 

By  the  memories  that  come  with  that 
singing 

His  soul  has  been  wiled 
Far  away  from  the  danger  of  battle  ; 

Transported,  beguiled, 

He  again  is  a  child, 

Sitting  down  at  the  feet  of  the  mother, 
Whose  prayers  are  the  charm 

That  ever  in  conflict  and  peril 
Has  strengthened  his  arm, 
And  kept  him  from  harm. 

Nay,  who  knows  but  his  spirit  that  mo 
ment 
Was  gone  in  its  quest 

Of  that  bright  bird  of  paradise,  vanished 
Too  soon  from  the  nest 
Where  her  lover  was  blest ! 

For  unerring  the  soul  finds  its  kindred, 

Below  or  above  ; 
And,  as  over  the  great  waste  of  waters 

To  her  mate  goes  the  dove, 

So  love  seeks  its  love. 

Did  he    see    her   first   blush,    burning 

softly 

His  kisses  beneath  ; 
Or  her  dear  look  of  love,  when  he  held 

her 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


403 


Disputing  with  Death 

For  the  last  precious  breath  ? 

Lost  Anita  !  sweet  vision  of  beauty, 

Too  sacred  to  tell 
Is  the  tale  of  her  dear  life,  that,  hidden 

In  his  heart's  deepest  cell, 

Is  kept  safely  and  well. 

And    what    matter   his   dreams  !     He 
whose  bosom 

With  such  rapture  can  glow 
Hath  something  within  him  more  sacred 

Than  the  hero  may  show, 

Or  the  patriot  know. 

And  this  praise,  for  man  or  for  hero, 
The  best  were,  in  sooth  ; 

His  heart,  through  life's  conflict  and 

peril, 

Has  kept  its  first  truth, 
And  the  dreams  of  its  youth. 


JOHN   BROWN. 

MEN  silenced  on  his  faithful  lips 

Words  of  resistless  truth  and  pow 
er  ;  — 

Those  words,  reechoing  now,  have  made 
The  gathering  war-cry  of  the  hour. 

They  thought  to  darken  down  in  blood 
The  light  of  freedom's  burning  rays  ; 

The  beacon-fires  we  tend  to-day 
Were  lit  in  that  undying  blaze. 

They  took  the  earthly  prop  and  staff 
Out  of  an  unresisting  hand  ; 

God  came,  and  led  him  safely  on, 
By  ways  they  could  not  understand. 

They  knew  not,  when  from  his  old  eyes 
They  shut  the  world  for  evermore, 

The  ladder  by  which  angels  come 
Rests  firmly  on  the  dungeon's  floor. 

They  deemed  no  vision  bright  could 
cheer 

His  stony  couch  and  prison  ward  ; 
He  slept  to  dream  of  Heaven,  and  rose 

To  build  a  Bethel  to  the  Lord  ! 

They  showed  to  his  unshrinking  gaze 
The  '"  sentence  "  men  have  paled  to 
see  ; 

He  read  God's  writing  of  "  reprieve," 
And  grant  of  endless  liberty. 


They  tried  to  conquer  and  subdue 
By  marshaled  power  and  bitter  hate  ; 

The  simple  manhood  of  the  man 
Was  braver  than  an  armed  state. 

They  hoped  at  last  to  make  him  feel 
The  felon's  shame,  and  felon's  dread  ; 

And  lo  !  the  martyr's  crown  of  joy 
Settled  forever  on  his  head  ! 


OTWAY. 

POET,  whose  lays  our  memory  still 
Back  from  the  past  is  bringing, 

Whose  sweetest  songs  were  in  thy  life 
And  never  in  thy  singing  ; 

For  chords    thy    hand    had    scarcely 
touched 

By  death  were  rudely  broken, 
And  poems,  trembling  on  thy  lip, 

Alas  !  were  never  spoken. 

We  say  thy  words  of  hope  and  cheer 

When  hope  of  ours  would  languish, 
And  keep  them  always  in  our  hearts 
For  comfort  in  our  anguish. 

Yet  not  for  thee  we  mourn  as  those 
Who  feel  by  God  forsaken  ; 

We  would  rejoice  that  thou  wert  lent, 
Nor  weep  that  thou  wert  taken. 

For  thou  didst  lead  us  up  from  earth 

To  walk  in  fields  elysian, 
And  show  to  us  the  heavenly  shore 

In  many  a  raptured  vision. 

Thy  faith  was  strong  from  earth's  last 
trial 

The  spirit  to  deliver, 
And  throw  a  golden  bridge  across 

Death's  dark  and  silent  river  ; 

A   bridge,   where   fearless    thou   didst 
pass 

The  stern  and  awful  warder, 
And  enter  with  triumphant  songs 

Upon  the  heavenly  border. 

Oh,  for  a  harp  like  thine  to  sing 
The  songs  that  are  immortal ; 

Oh,  for  a  faith  like  thine  to  cross 
The  everlasting  portal ! 

Then  might  we  tell  to  all  the  world 
Redemption's  wondrous  story  ; 


404 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHO2BE   GARY. 


Go  down  to  death  as  thou  didst  go, 
And  up  from  death  to  glory. 


OUR  GOOD  PRESIDENT. 

OUR  sun  hath  gone  down  at  the  noon 
day, 

The  heavens  are  black  ; 
And  over  the  morning,  the  shadows 

Of  night-time  are  back. 

Stop  the  proud  boasting  mouth  of  the 
cannon  ; 

Hush  the  mirth  and  the  shout  ;  — 
God  is  God  !  and  the  ways  of  Jehovah 

Are  past  finding  out. 

Lo !  the  beautiful  feet  on  the  mount 
ains, 

That  yesterday  stood, 
The   white   feet  that   came  with  glad 

tidings 
Are  dabbled  in  blood. 

The  Nation  that  firmly  was  settling 

The  crown  on  her  head, 
Sits    like    Rizpah,    in    sackcloth    and 
ashes, 

And  watches  her  dead. 

Who  is  dead  ?  who,  unmoved  by  our 

wailing, 

Is  lying  so  low  ? 
O   my    Land,  stricken   dumb   in   your 

anguish, 
Do  you  feel,  do  you  know, 

That  the  hand  which   reached   out  of 

the  darkness 
Hath  taken  the  whole  ; 


Yea,  the  arm  and  the  head  of  the  peo 
ple, — 
The  heart  and  the  soul  ? 

And  that  heart;  o'er  whose  dread  aw 
ful  silence 
A  nation  has  wept  ; 
Was    the    truest,    and    gentlest,    and 

sweetest, 
A  man  ever  kept. 

Why,  he  heard  from  the  dungeons,  the 

rice-fields, 

The  dark  holds  of  ships 
Every  faint,  feeble  cry  which   oppres 
sion 
Smothered  down  on  men's  lips. 

In    her    furnace,    the    centuries     had 

welded 

Their  fetter  and  chain  ; 
And  like  withes,  in  the  hands  of  his 

purpose, 
He  snapped  them  in  twain. 

Who  can  be  what  he  was  to  the  peo 
ple,  - 

What  he  was  to  the  state  ? 
Shall  the  ages  bring  to  us  another 

As  good  and  as  great  ? 

Our    hearts    with    their    anguish    are 
broken, 

Our  wet  eyes  are  dim  ; 
For  us  is  the  loss  and  the  sorrow, 

The  triumph  for  him  ! 

For,    ere   this,   face   to  face   with  his 
Father 

Our  martyr  hath  stood  ; 
Giving  into  his  hand  a  white  record, 

With  its  great  seal  of  blood  ! 


POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


TO  THE   CHILDREN. 

DEAR  little  children,  where'er  you  be, 
Who  are  watched  and  cherished  ten 
derly 

By  father  and  by  mother  ; 
Who   are  comforted   by  the  love  that 

lies 

In  the  kindly  depths  of  a  sister's  eyes, 
Or  the  helpful  words  of  a  brother  : 

I  charge  you  by  the  years  to  come, 
When   some   shall  be   far  away  from 

your  home, 

And  some  shall  be  gone  forever  ; 
By  all  you  will  have  to  feel  at  the  last, 
When   you   stand   alone  and  think  of 

the  past, 
That  you  speak  unkindly  never  ! 

For  cruel  words,  nay,  even  less, 
Words   spoken    only   in    thoughtless 
ness, 

Nor  kept  against  you  after  ; 
If  they   made    the   face   of   a   mother 

sad, 

Or  a  tender  sister's  heart  less  glad, 
Or  checked  a  brother's  laughter  ; 

Will  rise  again,  and  they  will  be  heard, 
And  every  thoughtless,  foolish  word 

That  ever  your  lips  have  spoken, 
After  the  lapse  of  years  and  years, 
Will  wring  from  yo'u  such  bitters  tears 

As  fall  when  the  heart  is  broken. 

May  you  never,  never  have  to  say, 
When  a  wave  from  the  past  on  some 

dreary  day 

Its  wrecks  at  your  feet  is  strewing, 
"  My  father  had  not  been  bowed  so 

low, 

Nor  my  mother  left  us  long  ago, 
But  for  deeds  of  my  misdoing  !  " 


May  you  never  stand  alone  to  weep 
Where  a  little  sister  lies  asleep, 

With  the  flowery  turf  upon  her, 
And  know  you  would  have  gone  down 

to  the  dead 
To  save  one  curl  of  her  shining  head 

From  sorrow  or  dishonor  : 

Yet  have  to  think,  with  bitter  tears, 
Of    some    little    sin   of   your  childish 

years, 

Till  your  soul  is  anguish-riven  ; 
And  cry,  when  there  comes  no  word  or 

smile, 

"  I  sinned,  but  I  loved  you  all  the  while, 
And  I  wait  to  be  forgiven  !  " 

May  you  never  say  of  a  brother  dear, 
"  Did  I  do  enough  to  aid  and  cheer, 
Did  I  try  to  help  and  guide  him  ? 
Now  the    snares    of   the   world  about 

him  lie, 

And  if  unhonored  he  live  and  die, 
I    shall   wish    I    were    dead    beside 
him  !  " 

Dear  little  innocent,  precious  ones, 
Be  loving,  dutiful  daughters  and  sons, 

To  father  and  to  mother  ; 
And,  to  save  yourselves  from  the  bitter 

pain 
That  comes  when  regret  and  remorse 

are  vain, 
Be  good  to  one  another  ! 


GRISELDA   GOOSE. 

NEAR  to  a  farm-house,  and  bordered 
round 

By  a  meadow,  sweet  with  clover, 
There  lay  as  clear  and  smooth  a  pond 

As  ever  a  goose  swam  over. 


406 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


The  farmer  had  failures  in   corn  and 

hops, 

From  drought  and  various  reasons  ; 
But  his  geese  had  never  failed  in  their 

crops 
In  the  very  worst  of  seasons. 

And  he  had  a  flock,  that  any  day 

Could  defy  all  sneers  and  slanders  ; 
They  were  certainly  handsome,  —  that 

is  to  say, 

They  were  handsome  for  geese  and 
ganders  ! 

And,  once  upon  a  time,  in  spring, 
A  goose  hatched  out  another,  — 

The  softest,  cunningest,  downiest  thing, 
That  ever  gladdened  a  mother. 

There  was  never  such  a  gosling  born, 
So  the  geese  cried  out  by  dozens  ; 

She  was  praised  and  petted,  night  and 

morn, 
By  aunts,  and  uncles,  and  cousins. 

She   must  have  a  name  with  a  lofty 

sound, 

Said  all,  when  they  beheld  her  ; 
So  they  proudly  led  her  down  to  the 

pond, 
And  christened  her,  Griselda  ! 

Now  you  think,  no  doubt,  such  love 
'and  pride, 

Must  perfectly  content  her  ; 
That  she  grew  to  goosehood  satisfied 

To  be  what  Nature  meant  her. 

But  folk  with  gifts  will  find  it  out, 
Though     the    world    neglects     that 
duty  ; 

And  a  lovely  female  will  seldom  doubt, 
Though  others  may,  her  beauty  ! 

And  if  she  had  thought  herself  a  fright, 
And  been  content  with  her  station, 

She  would  n't  have  had  a  story  to  write, 
Nor  I,  my  occupation. 

But  indeed   the   truth   compels  me  to 
own, 

Whoever  may  be  offended, 
That  my  heroine's  vanity  was  shown 

Ere  her  gosling  days  were  ended. 

When  the   mother  tried   to  teach  the 

art 
Of  swimming  to  her  daughter, 


She    said     that     she    didn't    like    to 

start. 
Because  it  ruffled  the  water. 

"  My  stars  !  "  cried  the  parent,  "  do  I 

dream, 

Or  do  I  rightly  hear  her  ? 
Can  it  be  she  would  rather  sit  still  on 

the  stream, 
Than  spoil  her  beautiful  mirror  ? " 

Yet,    if    any    creature     could    be    so 
fond 

Of  herself,  as  to  reach  insanity, 
A  goose,  who  lives  on  a  glassy  pond, 

Has  most  excuse  for  such  vanity  ! 

And  I   do  not  agree  with   those  who 
said 

They  would  glory  in  her  disgraces  ; 
Hers  is  n't  the  only  goose's  head 

That  ever  was  turned  by  praises. 

And     Griselda     swallowed     all     their 

praise  : 
Though    she     said    to    her    doting 

mother, 
"  Still,  a  goose  is  a  goose,  to  the  end 

of  her  days, 

From  one  side  of  the  world  to  the 
other  ! 

"  And  as  to  my  name  it  is  well  enough 

To  say,  or  sing,  or  whistle  ; 
But   you  just   wait    till    I  'in   old   and 

tough. 

And   you  '11   see   they   will   call   me 
Gristle  !  " 

So  she  went,  for  the  most  of  the  time, 

alone, 

Because  she  was  such  a  scoffer  ; 
And,    awful   to    tell  !    she    was    nearly 

grown 
Before  she  received  an  offer  ! 

"  Nobody    will     have     her,    that     is 

clear," 

Said  those  who  spitefully  eyed  her  ; 
Though    they  knew  every  gander,  far 

and  near, 
Was  dying  to  waddle  beside  her. 

And  some  of  those  that  she  used  to 
slight, 

Now  come  to  matronly  honor, 
Began  to  feel  that  they  had  a  right 

To  quite  look  down  upon  her. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


407 


And  some  she  had  jilted  were  heard  to 

declare, 

"  I  do  not  understand  her  ; 
And  I  should  n't  wonder,  and  should  n't 

care, 
If  she  never  got  a  gander  !  " 

But  she  said  so  all  could  overhear,  — 
And  she  hoped  their  ears  might  tin 
gle,  — 
"  If   she   could  n't   marry  above  their 

sphere, 
She  preferred  remaining  single  !" 

She  was  praised  and  flattered  to  her 

face, 

And  blamed  when  she  was  not  pres 
ent  ; 
And  between  her  friends  and  foes,  her 

place 
Was  anything  but  pleasant. 

One  day  she  learned  what  gave  her  a 

fright, 

And  a  fit  of  deep  dejection  ; 
And   she   said   to   herself,    that   come 

what  might, 
She  would  cut  the  whole  connection. 

The  farmer's  wife  to  the   geese   pro 
posed, 

Their  spending  the  day  in  the  sta 
ble  ; 

And  the    younger  ones,  left  out,  sup 
posed 
She  would  set  an  extra  table. 

So  they  watched  and  waited   till  day 

was  done, 

With  curiosity  burning  ; 
For  it  was  n't  till  after  set  of  sun, 
That   they  saw  them    back    return 
ing. 

Slowly    they     came,     and     each    was 

bowed 

As  if  some  disgrace  was  upon  her  ; 
They   did  n't   look   as    those   who   are 

proud 
Of  an  unexpected  honor  ! 

Each  told  the  naked   truth  :  't  was  a 

shock, 
But    who    that    saw,    could     doubt 

her? 
They  had  plucked  the  pluckiest  goose 

of  the  flock, 
Of  all  the  down  about  }.tr 


Said     Miss     Griselda,     "  That 's    my 

doom, 
If  I  stay  another  season  ;  " 

So  she  thought  she  'd  leave  her  roost 
ing  room  ; 

And  I  think  she  had  some  reason. 

Besides,  there  was  something  else  she 
feared  ; 

For  oft  in  a  kind  of  flurry, 
A  goose  mysteriously  disappeared, 

And  did  n't  come  back  in  a  hurry. 

And  scattered  afterwards  on  the 
ground,  — 

Such  things  there  is  no  mistaking, — 
Familiar  looking  bones  were  found, 

Which  set  her  own  a  quaking. 

She  said,  "There  is  danger  if  I  stay, 
From    which    there    are    none    ex 
empted  ; 

So,  though  I  perish  in  getting  away, 
The  thing  shall  be  attempted." 

And,  perfectly  satisfied  about 
Her  claims  to  a  foreign  mission, 

She  slipped  away,  and  started  out 
On  a  secret  expedition. 

And  oh  !  how  her  bosom  swelled  with 
pride  ; 

How  eager  hope  upbore  her  ; 
As  floating  down  the  stream,  she  spied 

A  broad  lake  spread  before  her. 

And  bearing  towards  her,  fair  and 
white, 

The  pleasant  breezes  courting, 
A  flock  of  swans  came  full  in  sight, 

On  the  crystal  waters  sporting. 

She  saw  the  lake  spread  clear  and  wide, 
And  the   rich    man's    stately   dwell 
ing, 

And  felt  the  thrill  of  hope  and  pride 
Her  very  gizzard  swelling. 

"  These  swans,"  she  said,  "  are  quite 
unknown, 

Even  to  their  ranks  and  stations  ; 
Yet  I  think  I  need  not  fear  to  own 

Such  looking  birds  for  relations. 

"  Besides,  no  birds  that  walk  on  lawns 
Are  made  for  common  uses  ; 

Men  do  not  take  their  pick  of  swans 
In  the  way  they  do  of  gooses. 


408 


THE   POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


"  Blanch  Swan  !    I  think  I  '11  take  that 
name, 

Nor  be  ashamed  to  wear  it ; 
Griselda  Goose  !  that  sounds  so  tame 

And  low,  I  cannot  bear  it  !  " 

Thought  she,  the  brave  deserve  to  win, 

And  only  they  can  do  it  : 
So  she  made  her  plan,  and  sailed  right 
in, 

Determined  to  go  through  it. 

Straight   up   she  went   to  the  biggest 
swan, 

The  one  who  talked  the  loudest ; 
For  she  knew  the  secret  of  getting  on 

Was  standing  up  with  the  proudest. 

"  Madam,"  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  're 

home, 

And  I  hope  to  know  you  better  ; 
You'  re  an  aunt  of  mine,  I  think,  but  I 

come 
With  an  introductory  letter." 

Then  she  fumbled,  and  said,  "  I  've  lost 

the  thing  ! 

No  matter !  I  can  quote  it ; 
And  here  's  the  pen,"  and  she  raised 

her  wing, 

"  With  which  Lord  Swansdown  wrote 
it. 

"  Of  course  you  never  heard  of  me, 
As  I  'm  rather  below  your  station  ; 

But  a  lady  famed  like  yourself,  you  see, 
Is  known  to  all  creation." 

Then  to  herself  the  old  swan  said, 
"Such  talk's  not  reprehensible  ; 

Indeed,  for  a  creature  country-bred, 
She  's  very  shrewd  and  sensible." 

Griselda  saw  how  her  flattery  took. 

And  cried,  on  the  silence  breaking, 
"  You  see  I  have  the  family  look, 

My  neck  there  is  no  mistaking. 

"  It  does  n't  compare  with  yours  ;  you 

know 

I  've  a  touch  of  the  democracy  ; 
While   your  style  and   manner  plainly 

show 
Your  perfect  aristocracy." 

Such  happy  flattery  did  the  thing : 
Though  the  young  swans  doubtfully 
eyed  her, 


My  Lady  took  her  under  her  wing, 
And  kept  her  close  beside  her. 

And  Griselda  tried  at  ease  to  appear, 
And     forget     the     home    she     had 

quitted  ; 
For  she  told  herself  she  had  reached  a 

sphere 
At  last  for  which  she  was  fitted. 

Though  she  had  some  fits  of  common 

sense, 

And  at  times  grew  quite  dejected  ; 
For  she  was  n't  deceived  by  her  own 

pretense. 
And  she  knew  what  others  suspected. 

If  ever  she  went  alone  to  stray, 

Some  pert  young  swan  to  tease  her 

Would  ask,  in  a  patronizing  way, 

If  their  poor  home  did  n't  please  her  ? 

Sometimes  when  a  party  went  to  sail 
On  the  lake,  in  pleasant  weather, 

As  if  she  was  not  within  the  pale, 
She  was  left  out  altogether. 

And  then   she  would  take   a  haughty 
tone, 

As  if  she  scorned  them,  maybe; 
But  often  she  hid  in  the  weeds  alone, 

And  cried  like  a  homesick  baby. 

One   day  when  she  had  gone   to  her 

room, 

With  the  plea  that  she  was  ailing, 
They  asked  some  rather  gay  birds  to 

come 
For  the  day,  and  try  the  sailing. 

But   they  said,  "  She  will  surely  hear 
the  stir, 

So  we  '11  have  to  let  her  know  it ; 
Of  course  we  are  all  ashamed  of  her, 

But  it  will  not  do  to  show  it." 

So  one  of  them  went  to  her,  and  said, 
With  a  sort  of  stately  rustle  : 

"  I    suppose   you   would   rather   spare 

your  head 
Than  join  in  our  noise  and  bustle  ! 

"  If  you  wish  to  send  the  slightest  ex 
cuse, 

I  '11  be  very  happy  to  take  it  ; 
And  I   hope  you  're  not  such  a   little 

goose 
As  to  hesitate  to  make  it !  " 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


409 


Too  well  Griselda  understood  ; 

And  said,  "  Though  my  pain  's  dis 
tressing, 
I  think  the  change  will  do  me  good, 

And  I  do  not  mind  the  dressing." 

'T  was  the   "  little  goose  "  that  made 

her  mad, 

So  mad  she  would  n't  refuse  her  : 
Though  she  saw  from  the  first  how  very 

glad 
Her  friend  would  be  to  excuse  her. 

She  had  overdone  the  thing,  poor  swan  ! 

As  her  ill  success  had  shown  her  ; 
Shot  quite  beyond  the  mark,  and  her 
gun 

Recoiled  and  hit  the  owner. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  cried,  "  I  've 
done  my  best  ; 

But  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  sinner, 
That  little  dowdy,  frightfully  dressed, 

Is  coming  down  to  dinner  ! 

"  I  tried  in  every  way  to  show 
That  I  thought  it  an  impropriety  ; 

But  I  s'pose  the  creature  does  n't  know 
The  manners  of  good  society  !  " 

Griselda  thought,  "  If  it  comes  to  that, 
With  the  weapon  she  takes  I  '11  meet 
her. 

She  's  sharp,  but  I  '11  give  her  tit  for  tat, 
And  I  think  that  I  can  beat  her." 

So  she  came  among  them  quite  at  ease, 
By  her  very  look  contriving 

To  say,  "  I  'm  certain  there  's  nothing 

could  please 
You  so  much  as  my  arriving." 

And  her  friend   contrived   to   whisper 
low, 

As  she  made  her  genuflexion  : 
"  A  country  cousin  of  ours,  you  know  ; 

A  very  distant  connection  ! 

"  She  has  n't  much  of  an  air,  you  see, 
And  is  rather  new  to  the  city : 

Aunt  took  her  up  quite  from  charity, 
And  keeps  her  just  from  pity." 

But  Griselda  paid  her,  fair  and  square, 
For  all  her  sneers  and  scorning  ; 

And  "  the  fete  was  quite  a  successful 

affair," 
So  the  papers  said  next  morning. 


And  yet  she  cried  at  the  close  of  day, 
Till  the  lake  almost  ran  over, 

To  think  what  a  price  she  had  to  pay 
To  get  into  a  sphere  above  her. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  that  our  common 
sense 

Should  be  lost  when  others  flatter  ; 
I  was  born  a  goose,  and  no  pretense' 

Will  change  or  help  the  matter  !  " 

At  last  she  did  nothing  but  mope  and 
fret, 

And  think  of  effecting  a  clearance  ! 
She  got  as  low  as  a  lady  can  get,  — 

She  did  n't  regard  her  appearance  ! 

She  got  her  pretty  pink  slippers  soiled 
By  wearing  them  out  in  bad  weather  ; 

And  as  for  her  feathers,  they  were  not 

oiled 
Sometimes  for  a  week  together. 

Had  she  seen  just  how  to  bring  it  about, 
She  would  have  left  in  a  minute  ; 

But  she  found  it  was   harder  getting 

out 
Of  trouble  than  getting  in  it. 

She  looked  down  at  the  fish  with  en 
vious  eyes, 

Because  each  mother's  daughter, 
Content  in  her  element,  never  tries 

To  keep  her  head  above  water  ! 

She  wished  she  was  by  some  good  luck, 
Turned  into  a  salmon  finny  ; 

Into  a  chicken,  or  into  a  duck  : 
She  wished  herself  in  Guinea. 

One  day  the  Keeper  came  to  the  lake, 
And  if  he  did  n't  dissemble, 

She  saw  that  to  her  he  meant  to  take, 
In  a  way  that  made  her  tremble. 

With    a    chill    of   fear    her    feathers 

shook, 

Although  to  her  friend  she  boasted 
He  had  such  a  warm,  admiring  look, 
That  she  feared  she  should  be  roast- 
ed; 

And  that  for  very  modesty's  sake, 

Since  nothing  else  could  shield  her, 
She  would  go  to  the  other  end  of  the 

lake, 

And   stay   till   the    night    concealed 
her. 


4io 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


So,  taking  no  leave,  she  stole  away, 
And  nobody  cared  or  missed  her  ; 

But  the  geese  on  the  pond  were  sur 
prised,  next  day, 
By  the  sight  of  their  missing  sister. 

She  told  them  she  strayed  too  far  and 

got  lost  ; 
And   though  being  from  home  had 

pained  her, 
Some  wealthy  friends  that  she  came 

across, 
Against  her  will  detained  her. 

But  it  leaked  from  the  lake,  or  a  bird 

of  the  air 

Had  carried  to  them  the  matter  ; 
For   even   before   her,    her   story  was 

there, 

And    they   all   looked   doubtfully    at 
her. 

Poor  Griselda !  unprotected,  alone, 
By  their  slights  and  sneers  was 

nettled  ; 
For  all  the  friends  that  her  youth  had 

known 

Were      respectably      married      and 
settled  ; 

Or  all  but  one,  —  a  poor  old  coot, 
That  she  used  to  scorn  for  a  lover  ; 

He  was  shabbier  now,  and  had  lost  a 

foot, 
That  a  cart-wheel  had  run  over. 

But  she  said,  "  There  is  but  one  thing 
to  be  done 

For  stopping  sneers  and  slanders  ; 
For  a  lame  excuse  is  better  than  none, 

And  so  is  the  lamest  of  ganders  !  " 

So  she  married  him,  but  do  you  know, 
They  did  not  cease  to  flout  her  ; 

For  she   somehow  could  n't  make    it 

go 
With  herself,  nor  those  about  her. 

They  spoke  of  it  with  scornful  lip, 
Though  they  did  n't  exactly  drop  her  ; 

As  if  't  was  a  limited  partnership, 
And  not  a  marriage  proper. 

And  yet  in  truth  I  'm  bound  to  say 
Her  state  was  a  little  better; 

Though  I  heard  her  friend  say  yester 
day 
To  another  one,  who  met  her,  — 


"  Oh,  I  saw  old  Gristle  Goose  to-night, 
(Of  course  I  did  not  seek  it)  ; 

I  suppose  she  is  really  Mrs.  White, 
Though  it  sticks  in  my  crop  to  speak 
it!" 


THE  ROBIN'S  NEST. 

JENNY  BROWN  has  as  pretty  a  house  of 

her  own 
As  ever  a  bird  need  to  want,  I  should 

think; 
And  the  sheltering  vine  that  about  it 

had  grown, 

Half  hid  it  in  green  leaves  and  roses 
of  pink. 

As  she  never  looked  shabby,  or  seemed 

out  of  date, 
It   was  surely   enough,   though    she 

had  but  one  dress; 
And  Robin,  the  fellow  she  took  for  her 

mate, 

Was  quite  constant  —  that  is,  for  a 
Robin,  I  guess. 

Jenny  Brown  had  four  birdies,  the  cun- 

ningest  things 

That  ever  peeped  back  to  a  mother- 
bird's  call  ; 
That  only  could  flutter  their  soft  downy 

wings, 

And  open  their  mouths  to  take  food 
• —  that  was  all. 

Now    I    dare    say  you  think  she  was 

happy  and  gay, 

And   she    was    almost   always    con 
tented  ;  but  yet, 

Though   I    know  you    will   hardly   be 
lieve  what  I  say, 

Sometimes  she  would  ruffle  her  feath 
ers  and  fret. 

One  day,  tired  of  flying  about  in  the 

heat, 
She  came  home  in  her  Grossest  and 

sulkiest  mood; 
And  though   she   brought  back  not  a 

morsel  to  eat, 

She   pecked   little   Robin  for  crying 
for  food. 

Just  then   Robin  came  and    looked  in 

through  the  trees, 

And  saw  with  a  quick  glance  that  all 
was  not  right, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


411 


But  he  sung  out  as  cheerful  and  gay  as 

you  please  : 

"Why,  Jenny,  dear  Jenny,  how  are 
you  to-night  ?  " 

It  made  her  more  angry  to  see  him  so 

calm, 
While   she  suffered  all  that  a  bird 

could  endure  ; 
And   she   answered,   "  '  How   am    I  ? ' 

who  cares  how  I  am  ? 
It  is  n't  you,  Robin,  for  one,  I  am 
sure  ! 

"  You  know  I  've  been  tied  here  day  in 

and  day  out, 
Till   I  'm  tired  almost  of  my  home 

and  my  life, 
While  you  —  you  go  carelessly  roving 

about. 

And  singing  to  every  one  else  but 
your  wife." 

Then    Robin   replied :  "  Little   reason 

you  've  got 
To  complain  of  me,  Jenny  ;  wherever 

I  roam 
I   still  think  of  you,  and  your  quieter 

lot, 

And   wish  't  was   my  place  to   stay 
here  at  home. 

"  And  as  to  my  singing,  I  give  you  my 

word, 
'T  is  in  concert,  and  always  in  public, 

beside  ; 

For  excepting  yourself,  there  is  no  lady 
bird 

Knows    the    softest    and    lovingest 
notes  I  have  tried. 

"  And,    Jenny,"  —  and  here   he  spoke 

tenderly  quite, 
As  with  head  drooped  aside  he  drew 

nearer  and  stood,  — 
"  I   heard  some  sad  news  as  I    came 

home  to-night, 

About  our  poor  neighbors   that  live 
in  the  wood. 

"You     know     Nelly    Jay,    that    wild, 

thoughtless  young  thing, 
Who  takes  in  her  children  and  home 

no  delight, 
But  early  and  late  is  abroad  on  the 

wing, 

To  chatter  and  gossip  from  morning 
till  night,  — 


"  Well,  yesterday,  just  after  noon,  she 

went  out, 
And  strayed  till  the  sun  had  gone 

down  in  the  west ; 
Complaining  to   some   of  her   friends, 

I  've  no  doubt, 

Of  the  trouble  she  had  taking  care  of 
her  nest : 

"  And  her  sweet  little  Nelly,  —  you  Ve 

seen  her.  my  dear, 
The  brightest  and  sprightliest  bird 

of  them  all, 
The  age  of  our  Jenny,  I    think,   very 

near, 

Tumbled   out  of  the  nest  and  was 
killed  by  the  fall. 

"  I  saw  the  poor  thing  lying  stiff  on  the 

ground, 
With   its  little  wing   broke  and  the 

film  o'er  its  eyes, 

While  the  mother  was  flying  distract 
edly  round 

And  startling  the  wood  with  her  pit 
eous  cries. 

"  As  I  stopped,  just  to  say  a  kind,  com 
forting  word, 
I    thought   how   my  own   home  was 

guarded  and  blessed  ; 
For,  Jenny,  my  darling,  my  beauty,  my 

bird, 

I  knew  I  should  find  you  content  in 
the  nest  ! 

"  And  how  are  our  birdies  ?  —  the  dear 

little  things  ; 
How  softly  and  snugly  asleep  they 

are  laid  ; 

But  don't  fold  them  quite  so  close  un 
der  your  wings, 

Or  you'll  kill  them  with  kindness, 
my  pet,  I  'm  afraid. 

"  And,  Jenny,  I  '11  stay  with  them  now, 

—  nay,  I  must, 
While  you  go  out  a  moment,  and  take 

the  fresh  air  ; 
You  sit  here  too  much  by  yourself,  I 

mistrust, 

And    are    quite    overburdened   with 
work  and  with  care. 

"  What,    you    don't  want  to  go  !    you 

want  nothing  so  long 
As  your  dear  little   ones  and   your 
Robin  are  here  ? 


412 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


Then    I  '11  stay  with    you,  Jenny,  and 

sing  the  old  song 

I  sang  when  I  courted  you  —  shall  I, 
my  dear  ?  " 


RAIN   AND   SUNSHINE. 

I  WAS  out  in  the  country 

To  feel  the  sweet  spring, 
I  was  out  in  the  country 

To  hear  the  birds  sing  ; 
To  bask  in  the  sunshine, 

Breathe  air  pure  and  sweet, 
And  walk  where  the  blossoms 

Grew  under  my  feet. 

So  at  morning  I  woke 

While  my  chamber  was  dark, 
And  was  up  —  or  I  should  have  been 

Up  with  the  lark, 
Only  no  lark  was  rising  ; 

And  never  a  throat 
Of  bird  since  the  morning 

Had  uttered  a  note. 

It  was  raining,  and  sadly 

I  gazed  on  the  skies, 
Saying,  "  Nothing  is  left  us 

To  gladden  our  eyes  ; 
And  no  pleasanter  sound 

Than  this  drip  on  the  pane  !  " 
When  I  caught  a  soft  patter 

That  was  not  the  rain. 

First  I  heard  the  light  falling 

Of  feet  on  the  stair, 
Then  the  voice  of  a  child 

Ringing  clear  through  the  air, 
And  with  eyes  wide  awake, 

And  curls  tumbled  about, 
Came  Freddy,  the  darling, 

With  laugh  and  with  shout. 

No  longer  we  heeded 

The  rain  or  the  gloom  ; 
His  smile,  like  the  sunshine, 

Illumined  the  room  ; 
We  missed  not  the  birds 

While  his  glad  voice  was  nigh : 
His  lips  were  our  roses, 

His  eyes  were  our  sky. 

Sweet  pet  of  the  household, 

And  hope  of  each  heart, 
God  keep  thee,  dear  Freddy, 

As  pure  as  thou  art, 


And  make  thee,  when  changes 
And  sorrows  shall  come, 

The  comfort  and  sweetness 
And  sunshine  of  home  ! 


BABY'S   RING. 

MOTHER  's  quite  distracted, 

Sister  's  in  despair  ; 
All  the  household  is  astir, 

Searching  everywhere. 
Every  nook  must  be  explored, 

Every  corner  scanned  — 
Baby's  lost  the  tiny  ring 

From  her  little  hand. 

Surely  never  such  a  babe 

Made  a  mother  glad  ; 
Never  such  a  dainty  hand 

Any  baby  had  ! 
Smallest  ring  was  ever  made 

Off  her  finger  slips  ; 
She  should  have  a  fairy's  ring 

For  such  rosy  tips. 

When  she  comes  to  womanhood, 

If  she  keeps  so  fair, 
She  will  surely  wear  the  ring 

Maidens  love  to  wear  : 
And  lest  she  should  lose  it  then, 

(She  '11  be  wise  and  deep) 
She  will  give  to  somebody 

Ring  and  hand  to  keep. 


DON'T   GIVE   UP. 

IF  you  tried  and  have  not  won, 

Never  stop  for  crying  ; 
All  that 's  great  and  good  is  done 

Just  by  patient  trying. 

Though  young  birds,  in  flying,  fall, 
Still  their  wings  grow  stronger  ; 

And  the  next  time  they  can  keep 
Up  a  little  longer. 

Though  the  sturdy  oak  has  known 
Many  a  blast  that  bowed  her, 

She  has  risen  again,  and  grown 
Loftier  and  prouder. 

If  by  easy  work  you  beat, 

Who  the  more  will  prize  you  ? 

Gaining  victory  from  defeat, 
That 's  the  test  that  tries  you  ! 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


413 


THE  GOOD  LITTLE  SISTER. 

THAT  was  a  bitter  winter 

When  Jenny  was  four  years  old 

And  lived  in  a  lonely  farm-house  — 
Bitter,  and  long,  and  cold. 

The  crops  had  been  a  failure  — • 

In  the  barns  there  was  room  to  spare  ; 

And  Jenny's  hard-working  father 
Was  full  of  anxious  care. 

Neither  his  wife  nor  children 
Knew  lack  of  fire  or  bread  ; 

They  had  whatever  was  needful, 

Were   sheltered,   and    clothed,    and 
fed. 

But  the  mother,  alas  !  was  ailing  — 
'T  was  a  struggle  just  to  live  ; 

And    they   scarce    had    even    hopeful 

words, 
Or  cheerful  smiles  to  give. 

A  good,  kind  man  was  the  father, 
He  loved  his  girls  and  boys  ; 

But  he  whose  hands  are  his  riches 
Has  little  for  gifts  and  toys. 

So  when  it  drew  near  the  season 
That  makes  the  world  so  glad  — 

When  Jenny  knew  't  was  the  time  for 

gifts, 
Her  childish  heart  was  sad. 

For  she  thought,  "  I  shall  get  no  pres 
ent 

When  Christmas  comes,  I  am  sure  ;  " 
Ah  !  the  poor  man's  child  learns  early 

Just  what  it  means  to  be  poor. 

Yet  still  on  the  holy  even 

As    she     sat    by    the     hearth-stone 

bright, 
And  her  sister  told  good  stories, 

Her  heart  grew  almost  light. 

For  the  hopeful  skies  of  childhood 

Are  never  quite  o'ercast ; 
And  she  said,  "  Who  knows  but  some 
how, 

Something  will  come  at  last  !  " 

Lo,  before  she  went  to  her  pillow, 
Her  pretty  stockings  were  tied 

Safely  together  and  slyly  hung, 
Close  to  the  chimney  side. 


There  was  little  room  for  hoping, 
One  would  say  who  had  lived  more 
years  ; 

Yet  the  faith  of  the  child  is  wiser 
Sometimes  than  our  doubts  and  fears. 

Jenny  had  a  good  little  sister, 
Very  big  to  her  childish  eyes, 

Who  was  womanly,  sweet,  and  patient, 
And  kind  as  she  was  wise. 

And  she  had  thought  of  this  Christmas, 
And  the  little  it  could  bring, 

Ever   since   the   crops  were   half   de 
stroyed 
By  the  freshet  in  the  spring. 

So  the  sweetest  nuts  of  the  autumn 
She  had  safely  hidden  away  ; 

And  the  ripest  and  reddest  apples 
Hoarded  for  many  a  day. 

And  last  she  mixed  some  seed-cakes 

(Jenny  was  sleeping  then), 
And  moulded  them  grotesquely, 

Like  birds,  and  beasts,  and  men. 

Then  she  slipped  them  into  the  stock 
ings, 

And  smiled  to  think  about 
The  joyful  wonder  of  her  pet, 

When  she  found   and  poured  them 
out. 

And    you   could  n't    have    seen    next 
morning 

A  gladder  child  in  the  land 
Than  that  humble  farmer's  daughter, 

With  her  simple  gifts  in  her  hand. 

And  the  loving  sister  ?  ah  !  you  know 

How  blessed  'tis  to  give  ; 
And  they  who  think  of  others  most 

Are  the  happiest  folks  that  live  ! 

She  had  done  what  she  could,  my  chil 
dren, 

To  brighten  that  Christmas  Day  ; 
And  whether  her  heart  or  Jenny's 

Was  lightest,  it  is  hard  to  say. 

And  this,  if  you  have  but  little, 
Is  what  I  would  say  to  you  : 

Make  all  you  can  of  that  little  — 
Do  all  the  good  you  can  do. 

And  though  your  gifts  may  be  humble, 
Let  no  little  child,  I  pray, 


414 


THE  POEMS  OF  PH(EBE   CARY. 


Find  only  an  empty  stocking 

On  the  morn  of  the  Christmas  Day  ! 

'T  is  years  and  years  since  that  sister 
Went  to  dwell  with  the  just  ; 

And  over  her  body  the  roses 
Blossom  and  turn  to  dust. 

And  Jenny  's  a  happy  woman, 

With  wealth  enough  and  to  spare  ; 

And  every  year  her  lap  is  filled 
With  presents  fine  and  rare. 

But  whenever  she  thanks  the  givers 
For  favors  great  and  small, 

She  thinks  of  the  good  little  sister 
Who  gave  her  more  than  they  all ! 


NOW. 

IF   something   waits,  and   you  should 
now 

Begin  and  go  right  through  it, 
Don't  think,  if  'tis  put  off  a  day, 

You  '11  not  mind  to  do  it. 

Waste  not  moments,  no  nor  words, 
In  telling  what  you  could  do 

Some  other  time  ;  the  present  is 
For  doing  what  you  should  do. 

Don't  do  right  unwillingly, 

And  stop  to  plan  and  measure  ; 

'T  is  working  with  the  heart  and  soul, 
That  makes  our  duty  pleasure. 


THE   CHICKEN'S   MISTAKE. 

A  LITTLE  downy  chicken  one  day 
Asked  leave  to  go  on  the  water, 

Where  she  saw  a  duck  with  her  brood 

at  play, 
Swimming  and  splashing  about  her. 

Indeed,  she  began  to  peep  and  cry, 
When  her  mother  would  n't  let  her  : 

"  If  the    ducks    can  swim  there,   why 

can't  I  ; 
Are  they  any  bigger  or  better  ?  " 

Then  the  old  hen  answered,  "  Listen  to 
me, 

And  hush  your  foolish  talking  ; 
Just  look  at  your  feet,  and  you  will  see 

They  were  only  made  for  walking." 


But  chicky  wistfully  eyed  the  brook, 
And  did  n't  half  believe  her, 

For  she  seemed  to  say,  by  a  knowing 

look, 
"  Such  stories  could  n't  deceive  her." 

And  as  her  mother  was  scratching  the 

ground, 

She  muttered  lower  and  lower, 
"  I   know    I  can  go    there  and  not  be 

drowned, 
And  so  I  think  I  '11  show  her." 

Then  she   made  a  plunge,  where   the 
stream  was  deep, 

And  saw  too  late  her  blunder  ; 
For  she  had  n't  hardly  time  to  peep 

Till  her  foolish  head  went  under. 

And  now  I  hope  her  fate  will  show 
The  child,  my  story  reading, 

That  those  who  are  older  sometimes 

know 
What  you  will  do  well  in  heeding, 

That  each  content  in  his  place  should 
dwell, 

And  envy  not  his  brother  ; 
And  any  part  that  is  acted  well, 

Is  just  as  good  as  another. 

For  we  all  have  our  proper  sphere  be 
low, 

And  this  is  a  truth  worth  knowing. 
You  will  come  to  grief  if  you  try  to  go 
Where    you    never  were    made  for 
going  ! 


EFFIE'S   REASONS. 

TELL  me,  Effie,  while  you  are  sitting, 

Cosily  beside  me  here, 
Talking  all  about  your  brothers, 

Which  you  like  the  best,  my  dear. 

"  Tom  is  good  sometimes,"  said  Efifie, 
"  Good  as  any  boy  can  be  ; 

But  at  other  times  he  does  n't 
Seem  to  care  a  bit  for  me. 

"  Half  the  days  he  will  not  help  me, 
Though  the  way  to  school  is  rough  ; 

Nor  assist  me  with  my  lessons, 
When  he  knows  them  well  enough. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  love  him  dearly  — 
He  's  a  brother  like  the  rest, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


415 


Though  I  know  he  's  not  the  best  one  ; 
And  I  do  not  love  him  best. 

"  Now  there  's  Charlie,  my  big  brother, 
Oh  !  he  's  always  just  as  kind  ! 

All  day  I  may  ask  him  questions, 
And  he  does  n't  seem  to  mind. 

"  He  with  every  lesson  helps  me, 
And  he  's  sure  to  take  my  part  ; 

So  I  think  I  ought  to  love  him  — 
And  I  do  with  all  my  heart. 

"  But  there  's  cunning  little  Neddy  — 
Well,  he  's  not  so  awful  good  ; 

But  he  never  seems  to  mean  it 
When  he  answers  cross  or  rude. 

"  Sometimes,  half  in  fun,  he  strikes  me, 
Just,  I  mean,  a  little  blow  ; 

But  he  'd  never,  never  do  it 
If  he  thought  it  hurt,  I  know. 

"  Then  again  he  's  nice  and  pleasant, 
Coaxing  me  and  kissing  me  ; 

When  he  wants  to  ask  a  favor, 
He  's  as  good  as  he  can  be. 

"  He  can't  help  me  with  my  lessons, 
He  has  hardly  learned  to  spell  ; 

But  in  everything  I  help  him, 
And  I  like  it  just  as  well. 

"  He  is  never  good  as  Charlie  ; 

Naughtier  oft  than  Tom,  I  know  ; 
But  for  all  that  I  love  him, 

Just  because  I  love  him  so  !  " 


FEATHERS. 

You  restless,  curious  little  Jo, 

I  have  told  you  all  the  stories  I  know, 

Written  in  poem  or  fable  ; 
I  have  turned  them  over,  and  let  you 

look 
At  everything  like  a  picture-book 

Upon  my  desk  or  table. 

I  think  it 's  enough  to  drive  one  wild 
To  be  shut  up  with  a  single  child, 

And  try  for  a  day  to  please  her. 
Oh,  dear  me  !  what  does  a  mother  do, 
Especially  one  who  lives  in  a  shoe, 

And  has  a  dozen  to  tease  her  ? 

"  Aha  !  I  've  found  the  very  thing," 
I  cried,  as  I  saw  the  beautiful  wing 


Of  a  bird,  and  I  said  demurely : 
"  Now,  if  you  '11  be  good  the  rest  of  the 

day, 
I  '11  give  you  a  bird  with  which  to  play  ; 

You  know  what  a  bird  is,  surely  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  and  she  opened  wide  her 

eyes, 
"  A  bird  is  alive,  and  sings  and  flies  ;  " 

Then,  folding  her  hands  together, 
She  archly  shook  her  wise  little  head, 
And,  looking  very  innocent,  said, 

"  I  know  a  bird  from  a  feather  !  " 

Well !  of  all  the  smart  things  uttered 

yet 
By  a  baby  three  years  old,  my  pet ! 

It 's  enough  to  frighten  your  mother. 
Why,    I  've    seen  women  —  yes,    and 

men, 
Who  have  lived  for  threescore   years 

and  ten, 
Who    didn't    know   one    from    the 

other  ! 

Now  there  is  Kitty,  past  sixteen  — 
The  one  with  the  soldier  beau,  I  mean  — 

When  he  makes  his  bayonet  rattle, 
And  acts  so  bravely  on  parade, 
She  thinks  he  would  n't  be  afraid 

In  the  very  front  of  battle. 

But  yet,  if  I  were  allowed  to  guess, 
I  should  say  her  soldier  was  all  in  the 

dress, 
And  you  '11  find  my  guess  is  the  right 

one. 

If  ever  he  has  to  meet  the  foe, 
The  first,  and  only  feather  he  '11  show 
That  day  will  be  a  white  one. 

There 's    Mrs.    Pie,    in   her    gorgeous 

plumes  ; 
Why,    half    the    folks    who   visit    her 

rooms, 

Because  she  is  dressed  so  finely 
And  holds  herself  at  the  highest  price, 
Pronounce  her  a  bird  of  paradise, 
And  s^y  she  sings  divinely  ; 

While  many  a  one,  with  a  sweeter  lay, 
Because    her   feathers    are    plain   and 

gray, 

The  world's  approval  misses, 
And  only  gets  its  scorn  and  abuse  ; 
She    is    called  a  failure,  and    called  a 

goose, 
And  her  song  is  met  with  hisses. 


416 


THE  POEMS   OF   PHCEBE   CARY. 


Men    will    stick    as    many   plumes    on 

their  head- 
As  an    Indian  chief  who  has  bravely 

shed 

The  blood  of  a  hostile  nation, 
When  all  the  killing  they  've  done  or 

seen 
Was    killing    themselves  —  that   is,    I 

mean 
In  the  public  estimation. 

When  Tom  to  his  pretty  wife  was  wed, 
"  She 's    fuss    and    feathers,"    people 

said, 

That  any  woman  could  borrow  ; 
And  sure  enough,  her  feathers  fell, 
Though  the  fuss  was  the  genuine  arti 
cle, 
As  Tom  has  found  to  his  sorrow. 

When  Mrs.  Butterfly,  who  was  a  grub, 
First  got  her  wings,  she  was  such  a 
snob, 

She  scorned  the  folks  around  her, 
And  made,  as  she  said,  the  feathers  fly  ; 
But  when  she  fell,  she  had  gone  s'o  high, 

She  was  smashed  as  flat  as  a  flounder. 

Alas,  alas  !  my  little  Jo, 

I  'm  sorry  to  tell  it,  and  sorry  it 's  so  ; 

But  as  to  deceiving,  I  scorn  to. 
And   I  only  hope  that  when  you  are 

grown 
You  will   keep   the  wonderful  wisdom 

you  've  shown, 
Nor  lose  the  wit  you  were  born  to. 

But  whether  folks,  so  wise  when  they  're 

small, 
Can  ever  live  to  grow  up  at  all, 

Is  one  of  the  doubtful  whethers. 
I  'm    sure    it    happens     but     seldom, 

though, 
Or   there    wouldn't   be  so    many,  you 

know, 
Who  can't  tell  birds  from  feathers. 


THE   PRAIRIE   ON   FJRE. 

THE  long  grass  burned  brown 

In  the  summer's  fierce  heat, 
Snaps  brittle  and  dry 

'Neath  the  traveler's  feet, 
As  over  the  prairie, 

Through  all  the  long  day, 
His  white,  tent-like  wagon 

Moves  slow  on  its  way. 


Safe  and  snug  with  the  goods 

Are  the  little  ones  stowed, 
And  the  big  boys  trudge  on 

By  the  team  in  the  road  ; 
While  his  sweet,  patient  wife, 

With  the  babe  on  her  breast, 
Sees  their  new  home  in  fancy, 

And  longs  for  its  rest. 

But  hark  !  in  the  distance 

That  dull,  trampling  tread  ; 
And  see  how  the  sky 

Has  grown  suddenly  red  ! 
What  has  lighted  the  west 

At  the  hour  of  noon  ? 
It  is  not  the  sunset, 

It  is  not  the  moon  ! 

The  horses  are  rearing 

And  snorting  with  fear, 
And  over  the  prairie 

Come  flying  the  deer 
With  hot  smoking  haunches, 

And  eyes  rolling  back, 
As  if  the  fierce  hunter 

Were  hard  on  their  track. 

The  mother  clasps  closer 

The  babe  on  her  arm, 
While  the  children  cling  to  her 

In  wildest  alarm  ; 
And  the  father  speaks  low 

As  the  red  light  mounts  higher 
"  We  are  lost !  we  are  lost ! 

'T  is  the  prairie  on  fire  !  " 

The  boys,  terror-stricken, 

Stand  still,  all  but  one  : 
He  has  seen  in  a  moment 

The  thing  to  be  done  ; 
He  has  lighted  the  grass, 

The  quick  flames  leap  in  air  ; 
And  the  pathway  before  them 

Lies  blackened  and  bare. 

How  the  fire-fiend  behind 

Rushes  on  in  his  power  ; 
But  nothing  is  left 

For  his  wrath  to  devour. 
On  the  scarred  smoking  earth 

They  stand  safe,  every  one, 
While  the  flames  in  the  distance 

Sweep  harmlessly  on. 

Then  reverently  under 
The  wide  sky  they  kneel, 

With  spirits  too  thankful 
To  speak  what  they  feel ; 


POEMS  FOR    CHILDREN. 


417 


But  the  father  in  silence 

Is  blessing  his  boy, 
While  the  mother  and  children 

Are  weeping  for  joy. 


DAPPLEDUN. 

A  LITTLE  boy  who,  strange  to  say, 
Was  called  by  the  name  of  John, 

Once  bought  himself  a  little  horse 
To  ride  behind,  and  upon. 

A  handsomer  beast  you  never  saw, 

He  was  so  sleek  and  fat  ; 
'•  He  has  but  a  single  fault,"  said  John, 

'•And  a  trifling  one  at  that." 

His  mane  and  tail  grew  thick  and  long, 
He  was  quick  to  trot  or  run  ; 

His    coat    was    yellow,    flecked    with 

brown  ; 
John  called  him  Dappledun. 

He  never  kicked  and  never  bit  ; 

In  harness  well  he  drew  ; 
But  this  was  the  single  foolish  thing 

That  Dappledun  would  do. 

He  ran  in  clover  up  to  his  knees, 
His  trough  was  rilled  with  stuff ; 

Yet   he  'd  jump  the  neighbor's  fence, 

and  act 
As  if  he  had  n't  enough. 

If  he  only  could  have  been  content 
With  his  feed  of  oats  and  hay, 

Poor  headstrong,  foolish   Dappledun 
Had  been  alive  to-day. 

But  one  night  when  his  rack  was  filled 

With  what  he  ought  to  eat, 
He  thrust  his  nose  out  of  his  stall, 

And  into  a  bin  of  wheat. 

And  there  he  ate,  and  ate,  and  ate, 
And  when  he  reached  the  tank 

Where  Johnny  watered  him  next  morn, 
He  drank,  and  drank,  and  drank. 

And  when  that  night  John  carried  him 
The  sweet  hay  from  the  rick, 

He  lay  and  groaned,  and  groaned,  and 

groaned, 
For  Dappledun  was  sick. 

And  when  another  morning  came 
And  John  rose  from  his  bed 

27 


And  went  to  water  Dappledun, 
Poor  Dappledun  was  dead  ! 


SUPPOSE! 

SUPPOSE,  my  little  lady, 

Your  doll  should  break  her  head, 
Could  you  make  it  whole  by  crying 

Till  your  eyes  and  nose  are  red  ? 
And  would  n't  it  be  pleasanter 

To  treat  it  as  a  joke  ; 
And  say  you  're  glad  "  'T  was  Dolly's 

And  not  your  head  that  broke  ?  " 

Suppose  you  're  dressed  for  walking, 

And  the  rain  comes  pouring  down,    , 
Will  it  clear  off  any  sooner 

Because  you  scold  and  frown  ? 
And  would  n't  it  be  nicer 

For  you  to  smile  than  pout, 
And  so  make  sunshine  in  the  house 

When  there  is  none  without  ? 

Suppose  your  task,  my  little  man, 

Is  very  hard  to  get, 
Will  it  make  it  any  easier 

For  you  to  sit  and  fret  ? 
And  would  n't  it  be  wiser 

Than  waiting  like  a  dunce, 
To  go  to  work  in  earnest 

And  learn  the  thing  at  once  ? 

Suppose  that  some  boys  have  a  horse, 

And  some  a  coach  and  pair. 
Will  it  tire  you  less  while  walking 

To  say,  "It  isn't  fair?" 
And  would  n't  it  be  nobler 

To  keep  your  temper  sweet, 
And  in  your  heart  be  thankful 

You  can  walk  upon  your  feet  ? 

And  suppose  the  world   don't  please 
you, 

Nor  the  way  some  people  do, 
Do  you  think  the  whole  creation 

Will  be  altered  just  for  you  ? 
And  is  n't  it,  my  boy  or  girl, 

The  wisest,  bravest  plan, 
Whatever  comes,  or  does  n't  come, 

To  do  the  best  you  can  ? 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  NORTHLAND. 

AWAY,  away  in  the  Northland, 

Where  the  hours  of  the  day  are  few, 


418 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


And  the  nights  are  so  long  in  winter, 
They  cannot  sleep  them  through  ; 

Where  they  harness  the  swift  reindeer 
To  the  sledges,  when  it  snows  ; 

And  the  children  look  like  bear's  cubs 
In  their  funny,  furry  clothes  : 

They  tell  them  a  curious  story  — 

I  don't  believe  't  is  true  ; 
And  yet  you  may  learn  a  lesson 

If  I  tell  the  tale  to  you. 

Once,  when  the  good  Saint  Peter 

Lived  in  the  world  below, 
And  walked  about  it,  preaching, 

Just  as  he  did,  you  know ; 

He  came  to  the  door  of  a  cottage, 
In  traveling  round  the  earth, 

Where    a    little    woman   was    making 

cakes, 
And  baking  them  on  the  hearth  ; 

And  being  faint  with  fasting, 
For  the  day  was  almost  done. 

He  asked  her,  from  her  store  of  cakes, 
To  give  him  a  single  one. 

So  she  made  a  very  little  cake, 

But  as  it  baking  lay, 
She  looked  at  it,  and  thought  it  seemed 

Too  large  to  give  away. 

Therefore  she  kneaded  another, 

And  still  a  smaller  one  ; 
But   it   looked,    when    she    turned    it 
over, 

As  large  as  the  first  had  done. 

Then  she  took  a  tiny  scrap  of  dough, 
And  rolled  and  rolled  it  flat  ; 

And  baked  it  thin  as  a  wafer  — 
But  she  could  n't  part  with  that. 

For  she  said,  "  My  cakes  that  seem  too 
small 

When  I  eat  of  them  myself, 
Are  yet  too  large  to  give  away." 

So  she  put  them  on  the  shelf. 

Then  good  Saint  Peter  grew  angry, 
For  he  was  hungry  and  faint; 

And  surely  such  a  woman 

Was  enough  to  provoke  a  saint. 

And  he  said,  "  You  are  far  too  selfish 
To  dwell  in  a  human  form, 


To  have  both  food  and  shelter, 
And  fire  to  keep  you  warm. 

"  Now,  you  shall  build  as  the  birds  do, 
And  shall  get  your  scanty  food 

By  boring,  and  boring,  and  boring, 
All  day  in  the  hard  dry  wood." 

Then  up  she  went  through  the  chim 
ney, 

Never  speaking  a  word, 
And  out  of  the  top  flew  a  woodpecker, 

For  she  was  changed  to  a  bird. 

She  had  a  scarlet  cap  on  her  head, 
And  that  was  left  the  same, 

But  all  the  rest   of   her   clothes  were 

burned 
Black  as  a  coal  in  the  flame. 

And  every  country  school-boy 

Has  seen  her  in  the  wood  ; 
Where  she  lives  in  the  trees  till  this 
very  day, 

Boring  and  boring  for  food. 

And  this  is  the  lesson  she  teaches  : 

Live  not  for  yourself  alone, 
Lest  the  needs  you  will  not  pity 

Shall  one  day  be  your  own. 

Give  plenty  of  what  is  given  to  you, 

Listen  to  pity's  call  ; 
Don't  think  the  little  you  give  is  great, 

And  the  much  you  get  is  small. 

Now,  my  little  boy,  remember  that, 
And  try  to  be  kind  and  good, 

When  you  see  the  woodpecker's  sooty 

dress, 
And  see  her  scarlet  hood. 

You   may  n't   be    changed   to   a   bird, 

though  you  live 
As  selfishly  as  you  can  ; 
But  you  will  be  changed  to  a  smaller 

thing  - 
A  mean  and  selfish  man. 


EASY    LESSONS. 

COME,  little  children,  come  with  me, 
Where  the  winds  are  singing  merrily, 

As  they  toss  the  crimson  clover  ; 
We  '11  walk  on  the  hills  and   by  the 
brooks, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


419 


And  I  '11  show  you  stories  in  prettier 

books 
Than  the  ones  you  are  poring  over. 

Do  you  think  you  could  learn  to  sing  a 

song, 
Though  you  drummed  and  hummed  it 

all  day  long, 

Till  hands  and  brains  were  aching, 
That  would  match  the  clear,  untutored 

notes 
That    drop    from    the    pretty,    tender 

throats 
Of  birds,  when  the  day  is  breaking  ? 

Did  you  ever  read,  on  any  page, 
Though  written  with  all  the  wisdom  of 

age, 

And  all  the  truth  of  preaching, 
Any  lesson  that  taught  you  so  plain 
Content  with   your  humble  work    and 

gain, 
As  the  golden  bee  is  teaching  ? 

For  see,  as  she  floats  on  her  airy  wings, 
How  she  sings  and  works,  and  works 
and  sings, 

Never  stopping  nor  staying  ; 
Showing  us  clearly  what  to  do 
To  make  of  duty  a  pleasure,  too, 

And  to  make  our  work  but  playing. 

Do  you  suppose  that  a  book  can  tell 
Maxims  of  prudence,  half  so  well 
As  the  little  ant,  who  is  telling 
To    man,  as    she    patiently   goes    and 

comes, 
Bearing     her     precious     grains     and 

crumbs, 

How  want  is  kept  from  the   dwell 
ing  ? 

Whatever  a  story  can  teach  to  you 
Of  the  good  a  little  thing  may  do, 

The  hidden  brook  is  showing, 
Whose  quiet  way  is  only  seen 
Because   of   its    banks,    so   fresh    and 
green, 

And  the  flowers  beside  it  growing. 

If  we  go  where  the  golden  lily  grows, 
Where,  clothed    in    raiment    fine,    she 

glows 

Like  a  king  in  all  his  glory, 
And  ponder  over  each  precious  leaf, 
We  shall  find  there,  written  bright  and 

brief, 
The  words  of  a  wondrous  story. 


We   shall   learn   the   beautiful    lesson 

there 
That    our    Heavenly    Father's    loving 

care, 

Even  the  lily  winneth  ; 
For  rich  in  beauty  thus  she  stands, 
Arrayed  by  his  gracious,  tender  hands, 
Though  she  toileth  not,  nor  spinneth. 

There  is  n't  a  blossom  under  our  feet, 
But    has    some    teaching,    short    and 

sweet, 

That  is  richly  worth  the  knowing  ; 
And  the  roughest  hedge,  or  the  sharp 
est  thorn, 

Is  blest  with  a  power  to  guard  or  warn, 
If  we  will  but  heed  its  showing. 

So  do  not  spoil  your  happy  looks 
By  poring  always  over  your  books, 

Written  by  scholars  and  sages  ; 
For  there  's  many  a  lesson  in  brooks  or 

birds, 
Told  in  plainer  and  prettier  words 

Than  those  in  your  printed  pages. 

And  yet,  I  would  not  have  you  think 
No   wisdom   comes    through    pen    and 

ink, 

And  all  books  are  dull  and  dreary  ; 
For   not    all    of    life    can    be    pleasant 

play, 
Nor  every  day  a  holiday, 

And  tasks  must  be  hard  and  weary. 

And  that  is  the  very  reason  why 

I  would  have  you  learn  from  earth  and 

sky 
Their    lessons    of    good,    and    heed 

them  : 

For  there  our  Father,  with  loving  hand, 
Writes  truths  that  a  child  may  under 
stand, 
So  plain  that  a  child  can  read  them. 


OBEDIENCE. 

IF  you  're  told  to  do  a  thing, 
And  mean  to  do  it  really  ; 

Never  let  it  be  by  halves  ; 
Do  it  fully,  freely  ! 

Do  not  make  a  poor  excuse; 

Waiting,  weak,  unsteady  ; 
All  obedience  worth  the  name, 

Must  be  prompt  and  ready. 


420 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


THE   CROW'S  CHILDREN. 

A  HUNTSMAN,  bearing  his  gun  a-field, 

Went  whistling  merrily  ; 
When  he  heard  the  blackest  of  black 
crows 

Call  out  from  a  withered  tree  : 

"  You  are   going   to   kill   the   thievish 
birds, 

And  I  would  if  I  were  you  ; 
But  you  mus  n't  touch  my  family, 

Whatever  else  you  do  !  " 

"  I  'm  only  going  to  kill  the  birds 
That  are  eating  up  my  crop  ; 

And  if  your  young  ones  do  such  things, 
Be  sure  they  '11  have  to  stop." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  crow,  "  my  children 
Are  the  best  ones  ever  born  ; 

There  is  n't  one  among  them  all 
Would  steal  a  grain  of  corn." 

"  But   how  shall    I  know  which    ones 

they  are  ? 

Do  they  resemble  you  ?  " 
"  Oh  no,"  said  the  crow,  "  they  're  the 

prettiest  birds, 
And  the  whitest  that  ever  flew  !  " 

So  off  went  the  sportsman,  whistling, 
And  off,  too,  went  his  gun  ; 

And  its  startling  echoes  never  ceased 
Again  till  the  day  was  done. 

And  the  old  crow  sat  untroubled, 

Cawing  away  in  her  nook  ; 
For   she    said,    "  He  '11  never  kill   my 
birds, 

Since  I  told  him  how  they  look. 

"  Now  there  's  the  hawk,  my  neighbor, 
She  '11  see  what  she  will  see,  soon  ; 

And  that  saucy  whistling  blackbird 
May  have  to  change  his  tune  !  " 

When,  lo  !  she  saw  the  hunter 
Taking  his  homeward  track, 
With  a  string  of  crows  as  long  as  his 

gun, 
Hanging  down  his  back. 

"Alack,  alack  !  "  said  the  mother, 
"  What  in  the  world  have  you  done  ? 

You  promised  to  spare  my  pretty  birds, 
And  you  've  killed  them  every  one." 


"  Your  birds  !  "  said  the  puzzled  hunter  ; 

"Why,  I  found  them  in  my  corn  ; 
And  besides,  they  are  black  and  ugly 

As  any  that  ever  were  born  !  " 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight,  you  stupid  !  " 
Said  the  angriest  of  crows  ; 

"  How  good  and  fair  her  children  are, 
There  's  none  but  a  parent  knows  !  " 

"  Ah  !   I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  hunter, 
"  But  not  as  you  do,  quite  ; 

It  takes  a  mother  to  be  so  blind 
She  can't  tell  black  from  white  !  " 


HIVES   AND   HOMES. 

WHEN  March  has  gone  with  his  cruel 

wind, 

That  frightens  back  the  swallow, 
And  the  pleasant  April  sun  has  shined 
Out    through  her  showery  clouds,   we 

find 
Pale  blooms  in  the  wood  and  hollow. 

But  after  the  darling  May  awakes, 
Bedecked  with  flowers  like  a  fairy  ; 

About  the  meadows  and    streams  and 
lakes 

She  drops  them  every  step  she  takes, 
For  she  has  too  many  to  carry. 

And   when  June  has  set  in   the  leafy 
trees 

Her  bird-tunes  all  a-ringing, 
Wherever  a  blossom  nods  in  the  breeze 
The  good,  contented,  cheerful  bees 

Are  found  at  work  and  singing. 

Ah,   the  wise  little  bees  !    they  know 

how  to  live, 

Each  one  in  peace  with  his  neighbor  ; 
For  though   they    dwell    in    a    narrow 

hive, 

They  never  seem  too  thick  to  thrive, 
Nor  so  many  they  spoil  their  labor. 

And  well  may  they  sing  a  pleasant  tune, 
Since  their  life  has  such  complete 
ness  ; 

Their  hay  is  made  in  the  sun  of  June, 
And  every  moon  is  a  honeymoon, 
And  home  a  home  of  sweetness. 

The  golden  belts  they  wear  each  day 
Are  lighter  than  belts  of  money  ; 


POEMS  FOR    CHILDREN. 


421 


And  making  work  as  pleasant  as  play, 
The  stings  of  life  they  give  away, 
And  only  keep  the  honey. 

They  are  teaching  lessons,  good  and 

true, 

To  each  idle  drone  and  beauty, 
And,  my  youthful  friends,  if  any  of  you 
Should  think  (though,   of  course,  you 

never  do) 
Of  love,  and  home,  and  duty  — 

And  yet  it  often  happens,  you  know, 

True  to  the  very  letter, 
That  youths  and  maidens,  when  they 

grow, 
Swarm  off  from  the  dear  old  hive  and  go 

To  another,  for  worse  or  better  ! 

So  you  'd  better  learn  that  this  life  of 

ours 

Is  not  all  show  and  glitter, 
And  skillfully  use  your  noblest  powers 
To  suck  the  sweets  from  its   poison 

flowers, 
And  leave  behind  the  bitter. 

But  wherever  you  stay,  or  wherever  you 

roam, 

In  the  days  while  you  live  in  clover, 
You   should   gather    your   honey   and 

bring  it  home, 

Because  the  winter  will  surely  come, 
When  the  summer  of  life  is  over. 


NORA'S  CHARM. 

'T  WAS  the  fisher's  wife  at  her  neigh 
bor's  door, 
And   she   cried,  as   she   wrung  her 

hands, 

"  O  Nora,  get  your  cloak  and  hood, 
And  haste  with  me  o'er  the  sands." 

Now  a  kind  man  was  the  fisherman, 

And  a  lucky  man  was  he  ; 
And  never  a  steadier  sailed  away 

From  the  Bay  of  Cromarty. 

And  the  wife  had  plenty  on  her  board, 
And  the  babe  in  her  arms  was  fair  ; 

But  her  heart  was  always  full  of  fear, 
And  her  brow  was  black  with  care. 

And  she  stood  at  her  neighbor's  door 

and  cried, 
"  Oh,  woe  is  me  this  night ! 


For  the  fairies  have  stolen  my  pretty 

babe, 
And  left  me  an  ugly  sprite. 

"  My  pretty  babe,  that  was  more  than 

all 

The  wealth  of  the  world  to  me  ; 
With  his    coral   lips,   and   his   hair  of 

gold, 
And  his  teeth  like  pearls  of  the  sea ! 

"  I  went  to  look  for  his  father's  boat, 
When    I    heard   the    stroke   of    the 
oar  ; 

And  I  left  him  cooing  soft  in  his  bed, 
As  the  bird  in  her  nest  by  the  door. 

"  And  there  was  the  father  fair  in  sight, 
And  pulling  hard  to  the  land  ; 

And  my  foot  was    back   o'er   the    sill 

again, 
Ere  his  keel  had  struck  the  sand. 

"  But  the  fairies  had  time  to  steal  my 
babe, 

And  leave  me  in  his  place 
A  restless  imp,  with  a  wicked  grin, 

And  never  a  smile  on  his  face." 

And  Nora  took  her  cloak  and  hood, 

And  softly  by  the  hand 
She  led  the  fisher's  wife   through  the 
night, 

Across  the  yellow  sand. 

"  Nay,  do  not  rave,  and  talk  so  wild  ;  " 
'T  was  Nora  thus  that  spoke  ; 

"  We    must    have    our   wits    to   work 

against 
The  arts  of  fairy  folk. 

"  There  's  a  charm  to  help  us  in  our 

need, 

But  its  power  we  cannot  try, 
With  the  black  cloud  hanging  o'er  the 

brow, 
And  the  salt  tear  in  the  eye. 

"  For  wicked  things  may  gibe  and  grin 
With  noisy  jeer  and  shout  ; 

But  the  joyous  peal  of  a  happy  laugh 
Has  power  to  drive  them  out. 

"  And  if  this  sprite  we  can  but  please, 
Till  he  laughs  with  merry  glee, 

We  shall  break  the  spell   that    holds 

him  here, 
And  keeps  the  babe  from  your  knee." 


422 


THE  POEMS  OF  PH(EBE   CARY. 


So  the  mother  wiped  her  tears  away, 

And  patiently  and  long 
They  plied  the  restless,  stubborn  imp 

With  cunning  trick  and  song. 

They  blew    a   blast    on    the    fisher's 
horn, 

Each  curious  prank  they  tried  ; 
They  rocked  the  cradle  where  he  lay, 

As  a  boat  is  rocked  on  the  tide. 

But  there  the  hateful  creature  kept, 
In  place  of  the  human  child  ; 

And  never  once  his  writhing  ceased, 
And  never  once  he  smiled. 

Then  Nora  cried,   "  Take  yonder  egg 

That  lies  upon  the  shelf, 
And  make  of  it  two  hollow  cups, 

Like  tiny  cups  of  delf." 

And  the  mother  took   the    sea-mew's 
egg, 

And  broke  in  twain  the  shell, 
And  made  of  it  two  tiny  cups, 

And  filled  them  at  the  well. 

She  filled  them  up  as  Nora  bade, 
And  set  them  on  the  coals  : 

And  the  imp  grew  still,  for  he  ne'er  had 

seen 
In  fairy-land  such  bowls. 

And    when    the    water    bubbled    and 

boiled, 

Like  a  fountain  in  its  play. 
Mirth  bubbled   up  to  his  lips,  and  he 

laughed 
Till  he  laughed  himself  away  ! 

And   the   mother    turned    about,    and 

felt 

The  heart  in  her  bosom  leap  ; 
For  the  imp  was  gone,  and  there  in  his 

place 
Lay  her  baby  fast  asleep. 

And  Nora  said  to  her  neighbor,  "  Now 
There  sure  can  be  no  doubt 

But  a  merry  heart  and  a  merry  laugh 
Drive  evil  spirits  out  ! 

"  And    who    can    say   but    the  dismal 

frown 

And  the  doleful  sigh  are  the  sin 
That  keeps  the  good  from  our  homes 

and  hearts, 
And  lets  the  evil  in  !  " 


THEY  DID  N'T  THINK. 

ONCE  a  trap  was  baited 

With  a  piece  of  cheese  ; 
It  tickled  so  a  little  mouse 

It  almost  made  him  sneeze  ; 
An  old  rat  said,  u  There  's  danger. 

Be  careful  where  you  go  !  " 
"  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  other, 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  !  " 
So  he  walked  in  boldly  — 

Nobody  in  sight ; 
First  he  took  a  nibble, 

Then  he  took  a  bite  ; 
Close  the  trap  together 

Snapped  as  quick  as  wink, 
Catching  mousey  fast  there, 

'Cause  he  did  n't  think. 

Once  a  little  turkey, 

Fond  of  her  own  way, 
Would  n't  ask  the  old  ones 

Where  to  go  or  stay  ; 
She  said,  "  I  'm  not  a  baby, 

Here  I  am  half-grown  ; 
Surely  I  am  big  enough 

To  run  about  alone  !  " 
Off  she  went,  but  somebody 

Hiding  saw  her  pass  ; 
Soon  like  snow  her  feathers 

Covered  all  the  grass. 
So  she  made  a  supper 

For  a  sly  young  mink, 
'Cause  she  was  so  headstrong 

That  she  would  n't  think. 

Once  there  was  a  robin 

Lived  outside  the  door, 
Who  wanted  to  go  inside 

And  hop  upon  the  floor 
"Ho,  no,"  said  the  mother, 

"  You  must  stay  with  me  ; 
Little  birds  are  safest 

Sitting  in  a  tree." 
"  I  don't  care,"  said  Robin, 

And  gave  his  tail  a  fling, 
"  I  don't  think  the  old  folks 

Know  quite  everything." 
Down  he  flew,  and  Kitty  seized  him, 

Before  he  'd  time  to  blink. 
"  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  I  'm  sorry, 

But  I  did  n't  think." 

Now,  my  little  children, 
You  who  read  this  song, 

Don't  you  see  what  trouble 
Comes  of  thinking  wrong  ? 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


423 


And  can't  you  take  a  warning 

From  their  dreadful  fate 
Who  began  their  thinking 

When  it  was  too  late  ? 
Don't  think  there  's  always  safety 

Where  no  danger  shows, 
Don't  suppose  you  know  more 

Than  anybod'y  knows  ; 
But  when  you  're  warned  of  ruin, 

Pause  upon  the  brink, 
And  don't  go  under  headlong, 

'Cause  you  did  n't  think. 


AJAX. 

OLD  Ajax  was  a  faithful  dog, 

Of  the  best  and  bravest  sort  ; 
And  we  made  a  friend  and  pet  of  him, 

And  called  him  "  Jax,  "  for  short. 
He  served  us  well  for  many  a  year, 

But  at  last  there  came  a  day 
When,  a  superannuated  dog, 

In  the  sun  he  idly  lay. 

And  though  as  kindly  as  before 

He  still  was  housed  and  fed, 
We  brought  a  younger,  sprightlier  dog 

For  service  in  his  stead. 
Poor  "Jax  !"  he  knew  and  felt  it  all, 

As  well  as  you  or  I  ; 
He  laid  his  head  on  his  trembling  paws, 

And  his  whine  was  like  a  cry. 

And  then  he  rose  :  he  would  not  stay 

Near  where  the  intruder  stayed  ; 
He  took  the  other  side  of  the  house, 

Though  that  was  in  the  shade. 
And  he  never  answered  when  we  called, 

He  would  not  touch  his  bone  ; 
'T  was  more  than  he  could  bear  to  have 

A  rival  near  his  throne. 

We  tried  to  soothe  his  wounded  pride 

By  every  kindly  art  ; 
But  if  ever  creature  did,  poor  "Jax" 

Died  of  a  broken  heart. 
Alas  !  he  would  not  learn  the  truth, 

He  was  not  still  a  pup  ; 
That  every  dog  must  have  his  day, 

And  then  must  give  it  up  ! 


"KEEP  A  STIFF  UPPER  LIP!" 

THERE  has  something  gone  wrong 
My  brave  boy,  it  appears, 


For  I  see  your  proud  struggle 

To  keep  back  the  tears. 
That  is  right.     When  you  cannot 

Give  trouble  the  slip, 
Then  bear  it,  still  keeping 

"A  stiff  upper  lip  !" 

Though  you  cannot  escape 

Disappointment  and  care, 
The  next  best  thing  to  do 

Is  to  learn  how  to  bear. 
If  when  for  life's  prizes 

You  're  running,  you  trip, 
Get  up,  start  again  — 

"  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 

Let  your  hands  and  your  conscience 

Be  honest  and  clean  ; 
Scorn  to  touch  or  to  think  of 

The  thing  that  is  mean  ; 
But  hold  on  to  the  pure 

And  the  right  with  firm  grip, 
And  though  hard  be  the  task, 

"  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 

Through  childhood,  through  manhood, 

Through  life  to  the  end, 
Struggle  bravely  and  stand 

By  your  colors,  my  friend. 
Only  yield  when  you  must ; 

Never  "give  up  the  ship," 
But  fight  on  to  the  last 

"  With  a  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 


WHAT  THE  FROGS  SING. 

"  I  'vEgot  such  a  cold  I  cannot  sing," 
Said    a    bull-frog   living   close    to   the 

spring,  — 

"  And  it  keeps  me  all  the  time  so  hoarse, 
That  my  voice  is  very  bass  of  course. 
I  hate  to  live  in  this  nasty  bog  ; 
It  is  n't  fit  for  a  decent  frog  : 
Now  there  's    that   bird,  just  hear  the 

note 

So  soft  and  sweet,  from  out  her  throat." 
He  said,  as  a  thrush  in  the  tree  above 
Was  trilling  her  liquid  song  of  love  : 
"  And  what  pretty  feathers  on  her  back, 
While    mine    is    mottled,    yellow    and 

black  ; 

And  then  for  moving  she  has  her  wings, 
They  must  be  very  handy  things  ;  — 
And  this  all  comes,  as  one  may  see, 
Just  from  living  up  in  a  tree  ; 
She  'd  look  as  queer  as  I  do,  I  '11  bet, 
If  she  had  to  live  down  here  in  the  wet, 


424 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


And  be  as  hoarse,  if  doomed  to  tramp 
About  all  day  where  her  feet  got  damp. 

"  As  the  world  is  managed,  I  do  declare, 
Things  do  not  seem  exactly  fair  ; 
For  instance,  here  on  the  ground  I  lie, 
While  the  bird  lives  up  there,  high  and 

dry  ; 
Some  frogs  may  n't  care,  perhaps  they 

don't, 
But  I  can't  stand  such  things  and  I 

won't ; 

So  I  '11  see  if  I  can  't  make  a  rise. 
Who   knows    what   he    can   do  till  he 

tries  ?  " 

So  this  cunning  frog  he  winked  his  eye, 
He  was  lying  low  and  playing  sly  ; 
For  he  did  not  want  the  frogs  about 
To  find  his  precious  secret  out : 
But   when   they   were   all   in  the  mud 

a-bed, 
And  the  thrush  in  her  wing  had  hid  her 

head, 

Then  Mr.  Bull  his  legs  uncurled, 
And  began  to  take  a  start  in  the  world. 
'T  was  from  the  foot  of  the  tree  to  hop, 
But  how  was  he  to  reach  the  top  ? 
For  it  was  n't  fun,  as  he  learned  in  time, 
To  climb  with  feet  not  made  to  climb  ; 
And  twenty  times  he  fell  on  his  head, 
But  he  would  n't  give  it  up,  he  said, 
For  nobody  saw  him  in  the  dark. 
So  he  clutched  once  more  at  the  scra2f°"v 

tsfsJ 

bark, 

And  just  as  the  stars  were  growing  dim, 
He  sat  and  swung  on  the  topmost  limb  ; 
He  was  damp  with  sweat  from  foot  to 

head  ; 

"  Why  it 's  wet  enough  up  here,"  he  said, 
"  And  I  've  been  nicely  fooled,  I  see, 
In  thinking  it  dry  to  live  in  a  tree. 
Why  what  with  the  rain,  and  with  the 

dews, 
I   shall  have   more  water  than  I    can 

use  !  " 

And  so  he  sat  there,  gay  as  a  grig, 
And  saw  the  sun  rise  bright  and  big  ; 
And  when  he  caught  the  thrush's  note, 
He,  too,  began  to  tune  his  throat  ; 
But  his  style  of  music  seemed  to  sound 
Even  worse  than  it  did  on  the  ground  ; 
So  all  the  frightened  birds  took  wing, 
And  he  felt,  himself,  that  it  was  n't  the 

thing, 
Though  he  said,  "  I  don't  believe  what 

I  Ve  heard 
That  a  frog  in  a  tree  won't  be  a  bird." 


But   soon    the    sun   rose    higher  and 

higher, 

And  froggy's  back  got  drier  and  drier. 
Till   he  thought  perhaps    it  might   be 

better, 

If  the  place  was  just  a  little  wetter  ; 
But  when  he  felt  the  mid-day  glare, 
He  said  "high  life  was  a  poor  affair  !  " 
No  wings  on  his  back  were  coming  out, 
He  did  n't  feel  even  a  feather  sprout  ; 
He  could  n't  sing  ;  and  began  to  see 
He  was  just  a  bull-frog  up  a  tree  ; 
But  he  feared  the  sneers  of  his  friends 

in  the  bog, 

For  he  was  proud  as  any  other  frog  ; 
And  he  knew,  if  they  saw  him  coming 

down, 
He  would  be  the  laugh  and  jest  of  the 

town. 
So  he  waited  there,  while  his  poor  dry 

back 
Seemed    burning    up,    and    ready    to 

crack  ; 

His  yellow  sides  looked  pale  and  dim, 
And  his  eyes  with  tears  began  to  swim, 
And    he    said,  "You  learn   when   you 

come  to  roam, 
That   nature   is    nature,    and    home  is 

home." 

And  when  at  last  the  sun  was  gone, 
And  the    shadows  cool   were    stealing 

on, 

With  many  a  slow  and  feeble  hop 
He  got  himself  away  from  the  top  ; 
He  reached  the  trunk,  and  then  with  a 

bound 

He  landed  safely  on  the  ground, 
And  managed   back    to  the  spring   to 

creep, 

While  all  his  friends  were  fast  asleep. 
Next  morning,  those  who  were  sitting 

near, 

Saw  that  he  looked  a  little  queer, 
So  they  asked,  hoping  to    have    some 

fun, 
Where  he  had  been,  and  what  he  had 

done. 

Now,  though  our  hero  scorned  to  lie, 
He  thought  he  had  a  right  to  be  sly  ; 
For,  said  he,  if  the  fellows  find  me  out, 
I  'd  better  have  been  "  up  the  spout." 
So  he  told  them  he  'd  been  very  dry, 
And,  to  own  the  truth, got  rather  high  ! 

Then  all  the  frogs  about  the  spring 
Began  at  once  this  song  to  sing  : 
First  high  it  rose,  and  then  it  sunk  :  — 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


425 


"  A  frog  -  got  -  drunk  -  got  -  drunk  -  got- 

drunk  — 
We  '11  -  search  -  the-spring-for-his-whis- 

key-jug  — 

Ka-chee,  ka-chi,  ka-cho,  ka-chug  !  " 
And  my  story's  true,  as  you  may  know, 
For  still  the  bull-frogs  sing  just  so  ; 
But  that  Mr.  Bull  was  up  a  tree, 
There  's  nobody  knows  but  himself  and 


THE   HUNCHBACK. 

IF  he  walked  he  could  not  keep  beside 

The  lads  that  were  straight  and  well ; 
And  yet,  poor  boy,  how  hard  he  tried, 

There  's  none  of  us  can  tell. 
To  get  himself  in  trim  for  school 

Was  weary  work,  and  slow ; 
And  once  his  thoughtless  brother  said, 

"  You  're  never  ready,  Joe  !  " 

He  sat  in  the  sun,  against  the  wall, 

When  the  rest  were  blithe  and  gay  ; 
For  he  could  not  run  and  catch  the  ball 

Nor  join  in  the  noisy  play. 
And  first  or  last  he  would  not  share 

In  a  quarrel  or  a  fight  ; 
But  he  was  prompt  enough  to  say, 

"  No,  boys,  it  is  n't  right  !  " 

And  when  a  lad  o'er  a  puzzling  "  sum  " 

Perplexed  his  head  in  doubt, 
Poor  little,  patient,  hunchbacked  Joe, 

Could  always  help  him  out. 
And  surely  as  the  time  came  round 

To  read,  define,  and  spell, 
Poor  little  Joe  was  ready  first, 

And  knew  his  lessons  well. 

And  not  a  child  in  Sunday-school 

Was  half  so  quick  as  he, 
To  tell  who  blessed  the  children  once 

And  took  them  on  his  knee. 
And  if  you  could  but  draw  him  out, 

'T  was  good  to  hear  him  talk 
Of  Him  who  made  the  blind  to  see 

And  caused  the  lame  to  walk. 

When  sick  upon  his  bed  he  lay, 

He  uttered  no  complaint  ; 
For  scarce  in  patient  gentleness 

Was  he  behind  a  saint. 
And    when    the   summons    came,   that 
soon 

Or  late  must  come  to  all, 


Poor  little,  happy,  hunchbacked  Joe, 
Was  ready  for  the  call. 


THE  ENVIOUS   WREN. 

ON  the  ground  lived  a  hen, 

In  a  tree  lived  a  wren, 
Who    picked    up    her  food  here  and 
there  ; 

While  biddy  had  wheat 

And  all  nice  things  to  eat. 
Said  the  wren,  I  declare,  't  is  n't  fair  !  " 

"  It  is  really  too  bad  !  " 

She  exclaimed  —  she  was  mad  — 
"  To  go  out  when  it  is  raining  this  way  ! 

And  to  earn  what  you  eat, 

Doesn't  make  your  food  sweet, 
In  spite  of  what  some  folks  may  say. 

"  Now  there  is  that  hen." 

Said  this  cross  little  wren, 
"  She  's  fed  till  she  's  fat  as  a  drum  ; 

While  I  strive  and  sweat 

For  each  bug  that  I  get, 
And  nobody  gives  me  a  crumb. 

"  I  can't  see  for  my  life 

Why  the  old  farmer's  wife 
Treats  her  so  much  better  than  me  ; 

Suppose  on  the  ground 

I  hop  carelessly  round 
For  a  while,  and   just  see  what    I  '11 
see." 

Said  this  'cute  little  wren, 

"  I  '11  make  friends  with  the  hen, 
And  perhaps  she  will  ask  me  to  stay  ; 

And  then  upon  bread 

Every  day  I  'd  be  fed, 
And  life  would  be  nothing  but  play." 

So  down  flew  the  wren. 

4i  Stop  to  tea,"  said  the  hen  ; 
And  soon  biddy's  supper  was  sent  ; 

But  scarce  stopping  to  taste, 

The  poor  bird  left  in  haste, 
And  this  was  the  reason  she  went : 

When  the  farmer's  kind  dame 

To  the  poultry-yard  came, 
She  said  —  and  the  wren   shook  with 
fright - 

"  Biddy  's  so  fat  she  '11  do 

For  a  pie  or  a  stew, 
And  I  guess  I  shall  kill  her  to-night." 


426 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


THE    HAPPY  LITTLE    WIFE. 

"  Now,   Gudhand,   have   you  sold  the 
cow 

You  took  this  morn  to  town  ? 
And  did  you  get  the  silver  groats 

In  your  hand,  paid  safely  down  ? 

"  And  yet  I  hardly  need  to  ask  ; 

You  hardly  need  to  tell ; 
For    I    see   by  the    cheerful  face   you 
bring, 

That  you  have  done  right  well." 

"  Well  !  I  did  not  exactly  sell  her, 
Nor  give  her  away,  of  course  ; 

But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did,  good  wife, 
I  swapped  her  for  a  horse." 

"A   horse!    Oh,    Gudhand,   you   have 
done 

Just  what  will  please  me  best, 
For  now  we  can  have  a  carriage, 

And  ride  as  well  as  the  rest." 

"  Nay,  not  so  fast,  my  good  dame, 

We  shall  not  want  a  gig  : 
I  had  not  ridden  half  a  mile 

Till  I  swapped  my  horse  for  a  pig." 

"  That 's  just  the  thing,"  she  answered, 
"  I  would  have  done  myself  : 

We  can  have  a  flitch  of  bacon  now 
To  put  upon  the  shelf. 

"  And    when   our    neighbors    come    to 

dine 

With  us,  they  '11  have  a  treat ; 
There    is    no    need    that    we    should 

ride, 
But  there  is  that  we  should  eat." 

"  Alack  !  alack  !  "  said  Gudhand, 
"  I  fear  you  '11  change  your  note, 
When   I  tell   you    I    have  n't   got    the 

Pig  — 

I  swapped  him  for  a  goat." 

"  Now,  bless  us  !  "  cried  the  good  wife, 
"  You  manage  things  so  well  ; 

What  I  should  ever  do  with  a  pig 
I  'm  sure  I  cannot  tell. 

"  If  I  put  my  bacon  on  the  shelf, 

Or  put  it  in  the  pot, 
The  folks  would  point  at  us  and  say 

'  They  eat  up  all  they  've  got  !  ' 


"  But   a  good  milch  goat,  ah  !   that 's 

the  thing 

I  've  wanted  all  my  life  ; 
And  now   we  '11  have    both    milk   and 

cheese," 
Cried  the  happy  little  wife. 

"  Nay,  not  so  fast,"  said  Gudhand, 
"  You  make  too  long  a  leap  ; 

When   I   found   I    could  n't   drive    «K) 

goat, 
I  swapped  him  for  a  sheep." 

"  A  sheep,  my  dear  !   you  must  have 

tried 

To  suit  me  all  the  time  ; 
'T  would    plague    me    so    to    have    a 

goat, 
Because  the  things  will  climb  ! 

"  But  a  sheep  !  the  wool  will  make  us 
clothes 

To  keep  us  from  the  cold  ; 
Run  out,  my  dear,  this  very  night, 

And  build  for  him  a  fold." 

"  Nay,  wife,  it  is  n't  me  that  cares 

If  he  be  penned  or  loosed  : 
I  do  not  own  the  sheep  at  all, 

I  swapped  him  for  a  goose." 

"  There,  Gudhand,  I  am  so  relieved  ; 

It  almost  made  me  sick 
To    think    that    I     should    have    the 
wool 

To  clip,  and  wash,  and  pick  ! 

"  'T  is  cheaper,  too,  to  buy  our  clothes, 
Than  make  them  up  at  home  ; 

And  I  have  n't  got  a  spinning-wheel, 
Nor  got  a  carding-comb. 

"  But  a  goose !    I    love   the    taste   of 
goose, 

When  roasted  nice  and  brown  ; 
And  then  we  want  a  feather  bed, 

And  pillows  stuffed  with  down." 

"  Now  stop  a  bit,"  cried  Gudhand, 
"Your  tongue  runs  like  a  clock  ; 

The  goose  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
I  swapped  him  for  a  cock." 

"  Dear  me,  you  manage  everything 

As  I  would  have  it  done  ; 
We  '11    know   now    when    to    stir    our 
stumps, 

And  rise  before  the  sun. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


427 


"  A    goose   would    be    quite    trouble 
some 

For  me  to  roast  and  stuff; 
And  then  our  pillows  and  our  beds 

You  know,  are  soft  enough." 

"  Well,  soft  or  hard,"  said  Gudhand, 
"  I  guess  they  '11  have  to  do  ; 

And  that  we  '11  have  to  wake  at  morn, 
Without  the  crowing,  too  ! 

"  For  you  know  I  could  n't  travel 
All  day  with  naught  to  eat ; 

So  I  took  a  shilling  for  my  cock, 
And  bought  myself  some  meat." 

"  That  was  the  wisest  thing  of  all," 
Said  the  good  wife,  fond  and  true  ; 


"  You  do  just  after  my  own  heart, 
Whatever  thing  you  do. 

"  We  do  not  want  a  cock  to  crow, 
Nor  want  a  clock  to  strike  ; 

Thank  God  that  we  may  lie  in  bed 
As  long  now  as  we  like  !  " 

And  then  she  took  him  by  the  beard 

That  fell  about  his  throat, 
And    said,    "  While  you   are  mine,    I 
want 

Nor  goose,  nor  swine,  nor  goat  /" 

And  so  the  wife  kissed  Gudhand, 
And  Gudhand  kissed  his  wife  ; 

And  they  promised  to  each  other 
To  be  all  in  all  through  life. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


About  the  cottage,  cold  and  white    .     .310 

A  boy  named  Peter 270 

A  breath,  like  the  wind's  breath,  may 

carry 159 

Across  the  German  ocean 313 

A  cunning  and  curious  splendor  .  .174 
A  farmer,  who  owned  a  fine  orchard, 

one  day 262 

After  the  cloud  and  the  whirlwind  .  .253 
Again,  in  the  Book  of  Books,  to-day  .  382 
A  half-score  years  have  sped  away  .  .  287 
Ah  !  "  Barefoot  Boy  !  "  you  have  led 

me  back 347 

Ah,  could  I  my  poet  only  draw  .  .  .  185 
Ah  !  how  the  eye  on  the  picture  stops  196 
Ah,  she  was  not  an  angel  to  adore  .  .  228 
Ah  !  there  are  mighty  things  under  the 

sun ,     .  172 

A  huntsman,  bearing  his  gun  a-field  .  420 
Ah  !  what  will  become  of  the  lily  .  .  345 
Ah  yes,  I  see  the  sunshine  play  .  .  .  229 

Alack,  it  is  a  dismal  night 120 

Alas,  alas  !  how  many  sighs  ....  394 
A  little  boy  who,  strange  to  say  .  .  .  417 
A  little  downy  chicken  one  day  .  .  .  414 
All  by  the  sides  of  the  wide  wild  river  200 

All  in  a  dreary,  April  day 357 

All  in  the  gay  and  golden  weather  .  .130 
All  these  hours  she  sits  and  counts  .  .  339 
All  the  time  my  soul  is  calling  .  .  .  244 

All  upon  a  summer  day 257 

Alone  within  my  house  I  sit  .  .  .  .  209 
Along  the  grassy  lane  one  day  .  .  .  193 
A  man  he  was  who  loved  the  good  .  .  386 
Among  the  pitfalls  in  our  way  .  .  .  246 
And  why  are  you  pale,  my  Nora  ?  .  .  98 
And  why  do  you  throw  down  your  hoe 

by  the  way  ? 261 

An  eye  with  the  piercing  eagle's  fire     .  400 


An  old,  old  house  by  the  side  of  the  ssa  207 
An  orphan,  through  the  world  .  .  .  392 
Apart  from  the  woes  that  are  dead  and 

gone 161 

A  poor  blind  man  was  traveling  one 

day 155 

A  shepherd's  child  young  Barbara 

grew 295 

As  I  sit  and  watch  at  the  window-pane  259 
As  laborers  set  in  a  vineyard  ....  340 
As  one  that  leadeth  a  blind  man  .  .170 
As  the  still  hours  toward  midnight 

wore 227 

As  violets,  modest,  tender-eyed  .  .  .  338 
At  noon-time  I  stood  in  the  doorway 

to  see 192 

At  the  dead  of  night  by  the  side  of  the 

sea 159 

At  the  north  end  of  our  village  stands  97 
Away,  away  in  the  Northland  .  .  .417 
Away  in  the  dim  and  distant  past  .  .  336 
Away  with  all  life's  memories  .  .  .  249 
Aweary,  wounded  unto  death  .  . '  .  249 
A  weaver  sat  one  day  at  his  loom  .  .  389 
A  wretched  farce  is  our  life  at  best  .  .359 

Beautiful  stories,  by  tongue  and  pen  .  314 
Beautiful  symbol  of  a  freer  life  .  .  .152 
Because  I  have  not  done  the  things  I 

know 178 

Behind  the  cottage  the  mill  creek 

flowed 284 

Be  not  much  troubled  about  many 

things 179 

Be  with  me,  O  Lord,  when  my  life  hath 

increase 3^8 

Blessings,  alas  unmerited 375 

Blessings,  blessings  on  the  beds  .  .  .254 
Boatman,  boatman  !  my  brain  is  wild  1 64 


430 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Brightly  for  him  the  future  smiled  .  .  329 
Brightly  the  morning  sunshine  glowed  294 
Brown-faced  sailor,  tell  me  true  .  .  .217 

Busybody,  busybody 272 

By  that  name  you  will  not  know  her     .  329 

Care  is  like  a  husbandman  .  .  .  .156 

Children,  who  read  my  lay 266 

Close  at  the  window-pane  Barbara 

stands 146 

Clouds  with  a  little  light  between  .  .  248 
Come,  bring  me  wild  pinks  from  the 

valleys 228 

Come,  darling,  put  your  frown  aside  .  1 10 
Come  down,  O  Lord,  and  with  us  live  !  385 
Come  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us  .  247 
Come,  gather  round  me,  children  .  .  267 

Come  let  us  talk  together 214 

Come,  little  children,  come  with  me  .  418 
Come,  loveliest  season  of  the  year  .  .351 
Come  make  for  me  a  little  song  .  .  .  195 
Come  out  from  heaven,  O  Lord,  and 

be  my  guide 250 

Come  thou,  my  heavy  soul,  and  lay  .  238 
Come  up,  April,  through  the  valley  .  342 

Comfort  me  with  apples 348 

Crooked  and  dwarfed  the  tree  must 

stay 379 

Cunning  little  fairy 344 

Darkness,  blind  darkness  every  way  .  251 
Darling,  while  the  tender  moon  .  .  .  356 
Dear,  gentle  Faith  !  on  the  sheltered 

porch 344 

Dear  gracious  Lord,  if  that  thy  pain  .  240 
Dear  little  children,  where'er  you  be  .  405 
Do  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil  .  .  .160 
Don't  ever  go  hunting  for  pleasures  .  274 
Do  we  not  say,  forgive  us,  Lord  .  .  377 
Down  and  up,  and  up  and  down  .  .163 
Down  the  peach-tree  slid 157 

Each  fearful  storm  that  o'er  us  rolls  .  251 
Earth  seems  as  peaceful  and  as  bright  375 
Earth,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills  .  252 

Egalton's  hills  are  sunny 103 

Emily  Mayfield  all  the  day  .  .  .  .109 
Even  as  a  child  too  well  she  knew  .  .  332 

Fainter  and  fainter  may  fall  on  my  ear  359 
Fair  girl,  the  light  of  whose  morning 

keeps 337 

Fair  Kirtle,  hastening  to  the  sea  .  .  308 
Fair  youth,  too  timid  to  lift  your  eyes  .  361 


PAGE 

Faithless,  perverse,  and  blind  .  .  .  387 
False  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet  .  .321 
Fame  guards  the  wreath  we  call  a 

crown J74 

Flower  of  the  deep  red  zone  ....  195 
For  the  sharp  conflicts  I  have  had 


with  sin 


231 


Fort  Wagner  !  that  is  a  place  for  us  .  401 
Friends,  let  us  slight  no  pleasant 

spring !67 

From  the  old  Squire's  dwelling,  gloomy 

and  grand 281 

From  the  outward  world  about  us  .  .184 
Full  early  in  the  dewy  time  of  year  .  177 

Get  up,  my  little  handmaid  ....  102 
Go  not  far  in  the  land  of  light  !  .  .  .  226 
Good  mother,  what  quaint  legend  are 

you  reading -119 

Good  old  mother  Faerie 263 

Good  Saint  Macarius,  full  of  grace  .  308 
Gracie  rises  with  a  light  .  .  -  .  .  .316 
Great  master  of  the  poet's  art !  .  .  .  400 

Haste,  little  fingers,  haste,  haste      .     .218 
Has  the  spring  come  back,  my  darling  210 
Have  you  been  in  our  wild  west  coun 
try  ?  then 208 

Heart-sick,  homeless,  weak,  and  weary  133 
He  had  drunk  from  founts  of  pleasure  375 
He  has  gone  at  last :  yet  I  could  not 

see •  .     .  327 

He    knew  what  mortals   know   when 

tried 396 

Helpless  before  the  cross  I  lay  .  .  .391 
Hemmed  in  by  the  hosts  of  the  Aus- 

trians 401 

Her  brown  hair  plainly  put  away  .  .  343 
Her  casement  like  a  watchful  eye  .  .127 
Her  cup  of  life  with  joy  is  full  .  .  .  364 
Here  is  the  sorrow,  the  sighing  .  .  .  252 
Her  heart  was  light  as  human  heart 

can  be 365 

Her  silver  lamp  half-filled  with  oil  .  .  372 
Her  skies,  of  whom  I  sing,  are  hung  .  335 
Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low  :  her  face  176 
Her  voice  was  tender  as  a  lullaby  .  .  149 
He  sat  all  alone  in  his  dark  little  room  167 
He  spoils  his  house  and  throws  his 

pains  away 151 

His  hands  with  earthly  work  are  done  394 
His  sheep  went  idly  over  the  hills  .  .  164 

Honest  little  Peter  Grey 274 

Hope  in  our  hearts  doth  only  stay  .     .  236 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


431 


Hope  wafts  my  bark,  and  round  my 
way 363 

How  are  we  living  ? 162 

How  can  you  speak  to  me  so,  Charlie  !  322 
How  dare  I  in  thy  courts  appear  .  .375 
How  dreary  would  the  meadows  be  .  262 
Hushed  is  the  even-song  of  the  bird  .  292 

I  am  weary  of  the  working  .  .  .  .169 
I  asked  the  angels  in  my  prayer  .  .250 
I  ask  not  wealth,  but  power  to  take  .  334 
I  do  not  think  the  Providence  unkind  .  1 58 
I  dreamed  I  had  a  plot  of  ground  .  .  163 
I  dreamed  I  had  a  plot  of  ground  .  .  226 
If  fancy  do  not  all  deceive  ....  363 
If  he  walked  he  could  not  keep  beside  425 
If  I  were  a  painter,  I  could  paint  .  .  189 
If  one  had  never  seen  the  full  complete 
ness  181 

If   something   waits,    and  you   should 

now 414 

If  we  should  see  one  sowing  seed  .  .178 
If  when  thy  children,  O  my  friend  .  .  387 
If  you  're  told  to  do  a  thing  .  .  .  .419 
If  you  tried  and  have  not  won  .  .  .412 

I  have  a  heavenly  home 374 

I  have  been  little  used  to  frame  .  .  .  239 
I  have  been  out  to-day  in  field  and 

wood 348 

have  no  moan  to  make 398 

have  sinned,  I  have  sinned,  before 

thee,  the  Most  Holy 378 

heard  the  gay  spring  coming  .  .  .171 
hold  that  Christian  grace  abounds  .  170 
knew  a  man  —  I  know  him  still  .  .165 

know  a  little  damsel 218 

know  not  what  the  world  may  be  .  .  225 
know  that  Edgar  's  kind  and  good  .  307 
know  you  are  always  by  my  side  .  .  397 
'11  tell  you  two  fortunes,  my  fine  little 

lad 274 

love  my  love  so  well,  I  would  .  .  .  365 
love  the  deep  quiet  —  all  buried  in 

leaves 209 

I  love  the  flowers  that  come  about  with 

spring 198 

I  'm  getting  better,  Miriam,  though  it 

tires  me  yet  to  speak 315 

Impatient  women  as  you  wait  .  .  .  333 
In  a  little  bird's  nest  of  a  house  .  .  .  268 
In  a  patch  of  clearing  scarcely  more  .  124 
In  asking  how  I  came  to  choose.  .  .217 
In  my  lost  childhood  old  folks  said  to 
me  .  .  .  160 


In  the  dead  of  night  to  the  dead- 
house  136 

In  the  pleasant  spring-time  weather  .  220 
In  the  shade  of  the  cloister,  long  ago  .  383 
In  the  stormy  waters  of  Gallaway  .  .118 
In  the  time  when  the  little  flowers  are 

born 301 

In  the  village  church  where  a  child  she 

was  led 290 

In  the  years  that  now  are  dead  and 

gone .     .  342 

In  thy  time,  and  times  of  mourning      .  245 

Into  the  house  ran  Lettice 93 

In  vain  the  morning  trims  her  brows  .  227 
In  what  a  kingly  fashion  man  doth 

dwell 169 

I  said,  if  I  might  go  back  again  .  .  .327 
I  saw  in  my  dream  a  wonderful  stream  212 
I  see  him  part  the  careless  throng  .  .  366 
Is  it  you,  Jack  ?  Old  boy,  is  it  really 

you  ? 106 

I  think  there  are  some  maxims  .  .  .  273 
I  think  true  love  is  never  blind  .  .  .  360 
I  thought  to  find  some  healing  clime  .  328 
I  took  a  little  good  seed  in  my  hand  .  377 
It  was  a  sandy  level  wherein  stood  .  .  202 
It  was  not  day,  and  was  not  night  .  .  94 
I  've  got  such  a  cold,  I  cannot  sing  .  .  423 
I  walked  from  our  wild  north  country 

once '  .     .     99 

I  was  out  in  the  country 412 

I  will  call  her  when  she  comes  to  me  .  201 

Jenny  Brown  has  as  pretty  a  house  of 
her  own 410 

Jenny  Dunleath  coming  back  to  the 
tcrvm 112 

Johnny  Right,  his  hand  was  brown  .     .123 

Last    night,    when    the    sweet    young 

moon  shone  clear 307 

Laugh  out,  O  stream,  from  your  bed  of 

green 355 

Lest  the  great  glory  from  on  high    .     .  248 

Lest  to  evil  ways  I  run 241 

Life  grows  better  every  day  ....  334 
Life's  sadly  solemn  mystery  .  .  .  .251 
Lift  up  the  years  !  lift  up  the  years  .  .142 

Like  a  child  that  is  lost 243 

Like  to  that  little  homely  flower.  .  .  221 
Little  children,  you  must  seek  .  .  .  265 
Little  Daisy  smiling  wakes  ....  349 
Loaded  with  gallant  soldiers  ....  399 
Lord,  with  what  body  do  they  come  .  381 


432 


OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Love  thee  ? : 
me    . 


Thou  canst  not  ask  of 


363 


Master,  I  do  not  ask  that  thou  .  .  .  252 
Morn  on  the  mountains  !  streaks  of 

roseate  light 196 

Most  favored  lady  in  the  land  .  .  .  333 

Mother 's  quite  distracted 412 

Mr.  Wren  and  his  dear  began  early 

one  year 298 

My  Carmia,  my  life,  my  saint  .  .  .219 
My  God,  I  feel  thy  wondrous  might  .  246 
My  head  is  sick  and  my  heart  is  faint  .  361 
My  heart  thou  makest  void,  and  full  .  225 
My  homely  flower  that  blooms  along  .  197 
My  lad  who  sits  at  breakfast  ....  269 
My  little  birds,  with  backs  as  brown  .  200 

My  little  love  hath  made 215 

My  Rose,  so  red  and  round  .  .  .  .198 
My  sorrowing  friend,  arise  and  go  .  .  222 
"  My  sweetest  Dorothy,"  said  John  .  300 
My  thoughts,  I  fear,  run  less  to  right 

than  wrong 181 

Nay,  darling,  darling,  do  not  frown  .  337 
Ne'er  lover  spake  in  tenderer  words  .  355 
Neighbored  by  a  maple  wood  .  .  .116 
No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from 

other  lands 186 

Nor  far  nor  near  grew  shrub  nor  tree  .  204 
No  tears  for  him  !  his  light  was  not 

your  light 187 

Not  what  we  think  but  what  we  do ,  .164 
Now  give  me  your  burden,  if  burden 

you  bear 138 

Now,  good  wife,  bring  your  precious 

hoard 312 

Now,  Gudhand,  have  you  sold  the 

cow 426 

No  whit  is  gained,  do  you  say  to  me  .  122 
Now  in  the  waning  autumn  days  .  .  288 
Now  tell  me  all  my  fate,  Jennie  .  .  .  220 
Now  the  hickory,  with  its  hum  .  .  .107 

O  brothers  and  sisters,  growing  old      .  326 

O  cousin  Kit  MacDonald 128 

O  day  to  sweet  religious  thought  .  .  245 
O  doubly-bowed  and  bruised  reed  .  .  396 
O'er  the  miller's  cottage  the  seasons 

glide 292 

O  fickle  and  uncertain  March  .  .  .  347 
O  friends,  we  are  drawing  nearer  home  222 
Often  I  sit  and  spend  my  hour  .  .  .  185 
Of  the  precious  years  of  my  life,  to-day  384 


Of  what  are  you  dreaming,  my  pretty 

maid 343 

Oh,  for  a  mind  more  clear  to  see  .  .  393 
Oh,  good  painter,  tell  me  true  .  .  .190 
Oh,  if  this  living  soul,  that  many  a  time  387 
Oh  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true  ...  96 
Oh,  the  tender  joy  of  those  autumn 

hours 289 

Oh  to  be   back   in  the  cool   summer 

shadow 362 

Oh  what  a  day  it  was  to  us  ....114 
Oh  what  is  thy  will  toward  us  mortals .  153 

O  ladies,  softly  fair 203 

O  land,  of  every  land  the  best  .  .  .  336 
Old  Ajax  was  a  faithful  dog  ....  423 
Old  Death  proclaims  a  holocaust  .  .  141 
Old  pictures,  faded  long,  to-night  .  .  345 
O  Loving  One,  O  Bounteous  One  .  .  376 
O  memory,  be  sweet  to  me  .  .  .  .199 
O  men,  with  wounded  hearts  ....  393 
O  mourner,  mourn  not  vanished  light  .  222 
O  my  friend,  O  my  dearly  beloved  .  .  367 
Once,  a  long  time  ago,  so  good  stories 

begin 305 

Once  a  trap  was  baited 422 

Once,  being  charmed  by  thy  smile  .  .  366 
Once  in  a  rough,  wild  country  .  .  .275 
Once  —  in  the  ages  that  have  passed 

away 389 

Once  more,  despite  the  noise  of  wars  .  186 
Once  when  morn  was  flowing  in  .  .  .  270 
Once,  when  my  youth  was  in  its  flower  357 
Once  when  the  messenger  that  stays  .  150 
One  autumn-time  I  went  into  the  woods  151 

One  day,  a  poor  peddler 265 

One  moment,  to  strictly  run  out  by  the 

sands 137 

One  on  another  against  the  wall .  .  .  200 
"  One  story  more,"  the  whole  world 

cried 399 

One  summer  night 165 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought  .  .  .  .372 
Only  a  newsboy,  under  the  light .  .  .  341 

On  the  ground  lived  a  hen 425 

O  river,  why   lie  with   your   beautiful 

face 161 

O  Rosamond,  thou  fair  and  good  .  .371 
O  summer  !  my  beautiful,  beautiful 

summer 211 

O  sweet  and  charitable  friend  .  .  .  353 
O  Thou,  who  all  my  life  hast  crowned  244 
O  Thou,  who  dost  the  sinner  meet  .  .241 
O  time  by  holy  prophets  long  foretold  378 
Our  days  are  few  and  full  of  strife  .  .  2 13 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


433 


PAGE     ( 

Our  generals  sat  in  their  tent  one  night  320 
Our  God  is  love,  and  that  which  we 

miscall 243 

Our  life  is  like  a  march  where  some  .  335 
Our  mightiest  in  our  midst  is  slain  .  .  253 
Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its 

walls 350 

Our  sun  has  gone  down  at  the  noonday  404 
Our  unwise  purposes  are  wisely  crossed  160 
Out  of  the  earthly  years  we  live  .  .  .  245 
Out  of  the  heavens  come  down  to  me  .  244 
Out  of  the  wild  and  weary  night  .  .  228 
O  winds  !  ye  are  too  rough,  too  rough  !  221 
O  years,  gone  down  into  the  past  .  .  380 

Peace  !  for  my  brain  is  on  the  rack  .  129 
Phantoms  come  and  crowd  me  thick  .  176 
Pleasure  and  pain  walk  hand  in  hand  .  248 
Poet,  whose  lays  our  memory  still  .  .  403 
Poor  little  moth  !  thy  summer  sports 
were  done  .  .  . 150 


Questioning,  blind,  unsatisfied 


•  335 


Red  in  the  east  the  morning  broke  .     .152 
Round  and  round  the  wheel  doth  run  .   173 


Says  John  to  his  mother,  "  Look  here  " 
Seek  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light 
Seven  great  windows  looking  seaward 
She  was  so  good,  we  thought  before 

she  died 

Shine  down,  little  head,  so  fair  .  .  . 
Shorter  and  shorter  now  the  twilight 

clips 

Show  you  her  picture  ?  here  it  lies  !  . 
Since  :  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day 
Since  thou  wouldst  have  me  show  .  . 
Sing  me  a  song,  my  nightingale  .  .  . 
Sinner,  careless,  proud,  and  cold  .  . 

Sitting  by  my  fire  alone 

So  I 'm  "  crazy  ^  in  loving  a  man  of 

three-score 

Solitude  —  Life  is  inviolate  solitude  . 
Some  comfort  when  all  else  is  night  . 

Sometimes  for  days 

Sometimes  the   softness    of    the   em 
bracing  air 

Sometimes  when  hopes  have  vanished, 

one  and  all 

Sometimes,  when  rude,  cold  shadows 

run 

So  she  goes  sometimes  past  Dovecote 

Mill 

28 


259 
162 
103 


337 
219 

205 
223 
328 
216 
216 

390 
194 

320 
180 
194 


174 

188 

287 


PAGE 

1 88 
108 


224 


213 
340 
193 


Stay  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky    .     . 

Steer  hither,  rough  old  mariner  .     .     . 

Still  alway  groweth  in  me  the  great 
wonder 

Still  from  the  unsatisfying  quest       .     . 

Stop,  traveler,  just  a  moment  at  my 
gate 

Strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me     .     . 

Sunset  !  a  hush  is  on  the  air   .... 

Suppose,  my  little  lady 417 

Suppose  your  hand  with  power  sup 
plied  153 

Swiftly  onward  the  seasons  flew  .     .     .  284 

Swiftly  the  seasons  sped  away     .     .     .  286 

Tell  me,  EfHe,  while  you  are  sitting  .  414 
Tell  you  a  story,  do  you  say  ?  ...  104 
The  best  man  should  never  pass  by  .173 
The  black  walnut-logs  in  the  chimney  99 
The  boughs  they  blow  across  the  pane  227 
The  clouds  all  round  the  sky  are  black  151 
The  crocus  rose  from  her  snowy  bed  .  352 
The  day,  with  a  cold,  dead  color  .  .  95 
The  farm-lad  quarried  from  the  mow  .  201 
The  glance  that  doth  thy  neighbor 

doubt 152 

The  good  dame  looked  from  her  cot 
tage  ...  303 

The  grass  lies  flat  beneath  the  wind     .  323 

The  heart  is  not  satisfied 387 

The  hills  are  bright  with  maples  yet  .  194 
The  house  lay  snug  as  a  robin's  nest  .  132 
The  Lady  Marjory  lay  on  her  bed  .  .317 
The  leaves  are  fading  and  falling  .  .256 

The  long  day  is  closing 246 

The  long  grass  burned  brown  .  .  .416 
The  maiden  has  listened  to  loving 

words 364 

The  moon's  gray  tent  is  up  :  another 

hour 171 

The  morn  is  hanging  her  fire-fringed 

veil 146 

The  path  of  duty  I  clearly  trace  .     .     .168 

The  pig  and  the  hen 269 

There  are  eyes  that  look  through  us  .  360 
There  has  something  gone  wrong  .  .  423 
There  is  hovering  about  me  ....  229 
There  is  comfort  in  the  world  .  .  .  339 
There  is  work  good  man,  for  you  to 
day  121 

There  was  a  good  and  reverent  man    .  168 

There  was  an  old  woman 264 

There  were  seven  fishers,  with  nets  in 
their  hands 241 


434 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGR 

The  smoke  of  the  Indian  summer  .  .134 
The  solemn  word  had  spread  .  .  .  242 
The  stone  upon  the  wayside  seed  that 

fell 167 

The  story  books  have  told  you  .  .  .  268 
The  stream  of  life  is  going  dry  .  .  .  247 
The  sun  of  a  sweet  summer  morning  .  330 
The  sun,  who  smiles  wherever  he  goes  362 
The  time  has  come,  as  I  knew  it  must  328 
The  truth  lies  round  about  us,  all  .  .170 
The  waiting-women  wait  at  her  feet  .  1 26 
The  waves,  they  are  wildly  heaving  .  229 
The  west  shines  out  through  the  lines 

of  jet 219 

The  wild  and  windy  March  once  more  203 
The  wind  blows  where  it  listeth  .  .158 
The  wrind  is  blowing  cold  from  the  west  1 58 
The  window  just  over  the  street  .  .144 
The  winter  goes  and  the  summer  comes  205 
The  year  has  lost  its  leaves  again  .  .  238 
They  set  me  up,  and  bade  me  stand  .  163 
Things  that  I  have  to  hold  and  keep, 

ah  !  there 392 

Think  on  him,  Lord  !  we  ask  thy  aid  .  378 
This  extent  hath  freedom's  ground  .  .169 
This  happy  day,  whose  risen  sun  .  .  382 
Though  Nature's  lonesome,  leafless 

bowers 347 

Though  never  shown  by  word  or  deed  162 
Though  sin  hath  marked  thy  brother's 

brow 239 

Though  we  were  parted,  or  though  he 

had  died 360 

Thou  givest  Lord,  to  Nature  law  .  .  245 
Thou,  under  Satan's  fierce  control  .  .  237 
Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket  .  .  .  .261 
Thy  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  thee  .  .  243 
Till  I  learned  to  love  thy  name  .  .  .  247 
Time  makes  us  eagle-eyed  .  .  .  .174 
'T  is  all  right,  as  I  knew  it  would  be 

by  and  by 322 

'T  is  a  sad  truth,  yet  't  is  a  truth  .  .  332 
To  begin,  in  things  quite  simple  .  .271 
To  Him  who  is  the  Life  of  life  .  .  .  247 
Toiling  early,  and  toiling  late  .  .  .  334 
Too  meek  by  half  was  he  who  came  .  355 
Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful  .  .  .159 
True  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeming  .  176 
Trying,  trying  —  always  trying  .  .  .157 
Turning  some  papers  carelessly  .  .  .  354 
'T  was  a  lonesome  couch  we  came  to  „ 

spread 397 

'T  was  a  night  to  make  the  bravest  .  306 
'T  was  in  the  middle  of  summer  .  .  100 


'T  was  the  fisher's  wife  at  her  neigh 
bor's  door 421 

Two  careless,  happy  children  .  .  .  346 
Two  clouds  in  the  early  morning  .  .  145 
Two  thirsty  travelers  chanced  one  day 

to  meet 161 

Two  travelers,  meeting  by  the  way  .  154 
Two  young  men,  when  I  was  poor  .  .166 

Unpraised  but  of  my  simple  rhymes  .  245 
Up  ere  the  throstle  is  out  of  the  thorn  131 
Up  Gregory  !  the  cloudy  east  .  .  .254 
Upon  her  cheek  such  color  glows  .  .  332 

Very  simple  are  my  pleasures  .  .  .156 
Vile,  and  deformed  by  sin  I  stand  .  .  376 

Wake,  Dillie,  my  darling,  and  kiss  me  237 

Watch  her  kindly,  stars 364 

We  always  called  her  "  poor  Margaret "  317 
We  are  face  to  face  and  between  us 

here 366 

We  are  proclaimed  even  against  our 

wills 154 

We  are  the  mariners,  and  God  the  sea  173 
We  contradictory  creatures  .  .  .  .156 
We  heard  his  hammer  all  day  long  .  254 
Well,  you  have  seen  it  —  a  tempting 

spot ! 282 

We  're  married,  they  say,  and  you 

think  you  have  won' me 212 

We  scarce  could  doubt  our  Father's 

power 352 

We  stood,  my  soul  and  I  .  .  .  •  .  358 
We  used  to  think  it  was  so  queer  .  .  95 
What  comfort,  when  with  clouds  of 

woe 230 

What  is  it  that  doth  spoil  the  fair 

adorning 177 

What  is  my  little  sweetheart  like,  d' 

you  say  ? 215 

What  is  time,  O  glorious  Giver  .  .  .  244 

What  '11  you  have,  John  ? 272 

What  shall  I  do  when  I  stand  in  my 

place 239 

When  her  mind  was  sore  bewildered  .  389 
When  I  see  the  long  wild  briers  .  .  202 
When  I  think  of  the  weary  nights  and 

days 98 

When  I  was  young  —  it  seems  as 

though 147 

When  March  has  gone  with  his  cruel 

wind 42o 

When  silenced  on  his  faithful  lips  .  .  403 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


435 


When  skies  are  growing  warm  and 
bright 

When  spring-time  prospers  in  the 
grass  

When  steps  are  hurrying  homeward 

When  the  birds  were  mating  and  build 
ing  310 

When  the  cares  of  day  are  ended     .     .  276 

When  the  mildew's  blight  we  see     .     . 

When  the  morning  first  uncloses     .     . 

When  the  way  we  should  tread  runs 
evenly  on 337 

When  the  world  no  solace  gives      .     .  392 

When  you  would  have  sweet  flowers  to 
smell  and  hold 331 

While  I  had  mine  eyes,  I  feared      .     .  397 

While  shines  the  sun,  the  storm  even 
then 175 

Why  are  we  so  impatient  of  delay  .     .  386 


208 

156 

225 


252 
184 


Why  do  you  come  to  my  apple-tree  .  273 
Why  weep  ye  for  the  falling  ....  240 
Will  the  mocking  daylight  never  be 

done 34° 

With  cobwebs  and  dust  on  the  window 

spread 283 

With  eyes  to  her  sewing-work  dropped 

down 14° 

With  her  white  face  full  of  agony  .  .  333 
Woodland,  green  and  gay  with  dew  .  206 

Ye  winds,  that  talk  among  the  pines  .  326 
You  have  sent  me  from  her  tomb  .  .  395 
You  know  th'  forks  of  th'  road,  and 

th'  brown  mill  ? 206 

You  never  said  a  word  to  me  .  .  .  357 
You  restless,  curious  little  Jo  ...  415 
You  think  I  do  not  love  you  !  why  .  1 54 
You  've  read  of  a  spider,  I  suppose  .  271 


Rl 
T< 

LC 


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